Fifty First Times: Brittana Style
by DRCA9
Summary: In any universe, regardless of the circumstances, Brittany and Santana are inevitable. Watch me prove it.
1. Maybe Tonight

"Alright Mom! Dad! I'm gone!"

"Not so fast, young lady," her mother says, rounding the corner out of the kitchen. "Where is this concert?"

"At the Ziegler Amphitheatre," Brittany answers, fiddling anxiously with her watch. "Can I go now?"

"And who's going with you?"

"_Mom_."

Brittany's dad turns up in the nick of time. "It's okay sweetie," he says, draping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Have a good time and be home by curfew. Oh, and here," he adds, digging into his pants pocket. "Just in case," he says, handing her over a couple of bills.

"Thanks Dad," Brittany squeals, launching herself at him and giving him a tight hug, kissing his scratchy cheek. "Be back later," she calls behind her, taking off out of the front door and jumping over the steps of her porch, running to the car still stalling at the curb.

"What took you so long?" Tina asks, making room for the blonde in the back seat.

"The parentals were being weird. Got fifty bucks though so they're not all bad," she grins, holding up the wrinkled bills.

"Nice. Ten of that's going on gas though," Mike informs her, peeking back at the pair through the rear-view mirror.

"Whatever," Brittany shrugs, buckling up. "I just can't wait until we get there."

"Hi Brittany."

The blonde tenses a little before turning her attention to him. "Hi Artie."

She really hadn't expected him to tag along and you would've figured he'd leave her alone after that whole 'I'm so gay I crap rainbows' song and dance she did for her entire class.

But, no such luck.

Artie pushes his glasses up on his nose. "You look really pretty tonight."

"Thank you," she says, giving him a tight smile and breathing a sigh of relief when he finally turns back around. She looks over at Tina and the other girl mouths 'sorry' to her before nodding her head in Mike's direction.

The boy looking through the mirror winces. "You know what, Brit? You can keep the ten."

***o*O*o***

"You cann_ot_ wear that shirt."

Santana looks down at herself, the cotton tee fitting snugly and coming to an end just above her low-riding jeans. "I actually believe I am wearing it."

"That's not what I mean," Quinn says, sitting up on the other girl's bed. "You can't wear it because I'm going to look like the fugly one standing next to you in my zip-up hoodie."

"Aww, you mad Q?" Santana chuckles, going back to outing the finishing touches on her make-up.

"No. Just pissed about this baby-weight. Why do you have to gain weight when you're pregnant anyway? This just is another tick in the column for 'God is a man'," the blonde grumbles, flopping back down.

Santana rolls her eyes and puts down the mascara, walking over to her bed. "Don't be ridiculous Q. You're gorgeous."

Quinn grins even though her eyes are closed. "You're just saying that."

"Yeah, I totally am," Santana deadpans, guffawing when a pillow flies in her direction. "Quit being a Debbie-downer, man. We're going to see the Breadstix tonight. To. Night."

"I know. I know," Quinn groans, opening her eyes and holding out her hands. "Pull me up."

Santana obliges and quickly helps the other girl to her feet, her hand sliding around to her lower back as she tries to steady her.

"Santana, I love you like a sister. Groping is not acceptable," Quinn chuckles, pushing the brunette away.

"As if," the dark-haired girl mumbles, looking away shyly.

She really hated that she had come out to Quinn first of all people, because now the blonde wouldn't shut up about it.

"Come on, girl," Quinn says, draping an arm around her friend's shoulders. "It's time to get Stix-faced."

***o*O*o***

Brittany was staring at the ticket man.

"But our tickets say Row B, seats eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen. How are we not sitting by each other?" Tina asks; hand on her hip as she stares down the older man.

"Look kid," the guy says, rather rudely too. "I don't make the rules. I check the ticket. I seat the ticketholder. End of story. Now, seat twelve is in this row, do you want in or not, blondie?"

Brittany looks at her friends sadly, not enjoying the fact that they're going to be split up.

Mike gives her a little smile and Tina steps forward to speak. "We'll call you when we get to our seats, okay? Maybe we'll get lucky and someone'll want to switch."

Brittany nods and reluctantly, steps into the aisle and taking a seat on the fold-down chair, waiting.

***o*O*o***

"Oh hell-to-the-NO! I paid good money for these tickets and I am definitely getting in," Mercedes booms, startling the entire crowd of people behind them.

"Damn, Cedes," Santana mumbles, sticking a finger in her ear. "I don't think they heard you in Australia."

"I'm sorry, girl. But if this guy thinks he's splitting us up he's got another thing coming," Mercedes continues, neck action and finger-shaking in full effect.

Quinn and Santana turn to each other and commence the rock-paper-scissor style game, which Quinn promptly loses, which means Mercedes is now officially solely Quinn's problem.

So while Quinn's pulling Mercedes away, explaining to her the new seating arrangements, Santana ducks into the aisle-way and into the curtain and marvels at how incredibly huge the thing looks from the inside.

She absently makes her way to her seat, plopping straight down without paying too much attention.

"Wow!" she breathes, never having seen this many people in one place before. At least, not up close. She has a television after all.

"Uh huh," someone agrees to the right of her and her head whips in that direction, leaving her with a flash of pale skin and a mouthful of hair.

Brittany giggles, unable to help herself with the Latina spits out a few strands of her own hair. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Santana frowns, not used to being laughed at. "You didn't."

"Oh," is the blonde's return response and she just turns back to facing front, her eyes aimlessly searching an empty stage.

"Oh hellz no! And we're a whole three rows back! I wantz my money back!" Santana fights off a snicker while sinking lower in her seat, because although they are her friends, she does not want to be associated with them right now.

"Someone's angry," Brittany says, but she never looks away from the stage.

"Are you talking to me?" Santana asks, somewhat intrigued.

Brittany looks at her as if just realizing she'd been sitting there. "Sure," she says, smiling brightly.

Santana mirrors it for a moment, reflexively of course, before her poker face is back on. "So, you came to the concert alone?"

Brittany shakes her head back and forth. "My friends and I got separated. The ticket guy said that those were the rules or something. It's kind of a bummer."

"Yeah, me too," Santana nods, risking a glance at her friends. Mercedes is sitting in a chair now, arms folded across her chest and face frozen in annoyance. Quinn's next to her looking completely relieved that the other girl has finally calmed her tits. "But, it'll be alright, I guess," she says, turning her attention back to the blonde. "We can be each other's friends for the night."

Brittany's grin gets brighter. "I'd like that."

***o*O*o***

Pretty soon the venue is packed to the brim with young adults and teenagers, the anxious energy in the air making the place buzz.

Brittany and Santana made small talk the whole while, sharing names, talking about friends and family, and, of course, "The Breadstix".

"Favorite song: Go," Santana says, leaning forward in her seat a little.

"Oh that's easy, _Meatballs and Mariana_," Brittany supplies without even having to think about it. "Yours?"

"_Lasagna Lover_," Santana answers, gripping the armrest of her chair. "Hottest band member?" she asks hesitantly, shyly averting her gaze.

Only for a moment though.

Brittany grins. "Well, Puck's pretty hot," she starts, carefully observing Santana's reaction and noting that her shoulders slump just a little bit. "But, to be honest, none of them can hold a candle to Rachel."

Santana's cheeks warm and her jaw comically drops open, stunned into shock. "For real?"

Brittany nods. "Uh huh."

"You're getting more interesting by the second Brittany," Santana says, smirking a little.

***o*O*o***

"What's up Ohio?"

Everyone jumps to their feet when the band finally files onto the stage, microphones in hand. Rachel Berry, the lead singer, walks out to the center of the stage, the spotlight shining brightly on her.

"I know we kind of messed you guys up on the seating arrangements but we wanted our fans to get to know one another and it was all Finn's idea so if you want to blame anyone, blame him."

Finn does a little drum roll and about a hundred and one girls swoon.

Pfft.

Drummers.

Santana and Brittany are still standing, less than twenty feet away from the stage actually.

And they're dead middle too so it's almost like Rachel is looking directly at them when she points at the audience suddenly.

"Alright! This one's for you, Lima."

Finn kicks in the bass line and Puck and Sam start strumming on their guitars, swaying from side to side and encouraging the audience to do so as well.

"This song is for anybody," Rachel tells them. "Anybody looking for love. Here's hoping you can find it. Maybe tonight."

Brittany and Santana turn to each other just as Rachel starts the first verse, grinning shyly at one another.

Brittany boldly grabs Santana's hand and the brunette smiles wider, listening to the words of the song.

_Rachel:_

_He was a nice fine boy, wearing skinny jeans_

_His hair was unkempt but his shirt was clean_

_Saw him sitting on the side with a few of his friends_

_Sam:_

_She was a pretty girl, in a baby tee_

_Looking like something off a movie screen_

_And no that's not where the story ends_

_Both:_

_You may think that I've lost my mind_

_But I'm telling you it was love at first sight_

_All:_

_Maybe tonight…._

_Is the night, that we will (we will)_

_Fall in love_

"This is awesome," Brittany yells at the side of the other girl's face but Santana hasn't ever looked away, finding it much more entertaining to watch the way Brittany's face and eyes light up when she's happy.

"Yeah," she mumbles absently. "Awesome."

***o*O*o***

"Good night Ohio!"

The crowd is deafening, and it's no surprise that the hometown rock stars are getting such a warm reception. What is a surprise is Brittany and Santana are not part of that booming crowd.

Nope, they're out in the vestibule, kissing like there's no tomorrow.

"You've got my number right?" Santana asks huskily, her eyes unfocused and crossed as they meet Brittany's.

"I think so," Brittany nods, diving back in. "And you've got mine?"

"Memorized," the brunette mutters, her palm pressed against the brick wall on the side of Brittany's head. "But just in case I stored it on my phone too."

"Good," Brittany breathes, cinching Santana's shirt in her hands, pulling her in tighter. "That's good."

***o*O*o***

Santana finally catches up to Quinn and Mercedes at the main entrance to the venue, the pair looking decidedly sullen.

"What's wrong?"

Quinn holds up a hand and shows how she's attached to Mercedes at the wrist with those little plastic zip-tie cuffs.

"Oh shit," Santana snorts, seeing that Mercedes' other hand is in fact tethered to a small bicycle rack. "What did you do?"

Quinn openly glares at Santana when Mercedes snaps. "I didn't do nothing. That stupid usher said something about not bringing food from outside in and tried to take away my tots. I was like, Oh, hell no!"

Santana shrugs. "So what?"

"So…I may or may not have hit him in the process but nobody's touches my tater tots and now that fool has a black eye for a reminder," Mercedes continues to sass and Quinn just shakes her head.

"How was your night?"

Santana smiles, and then smiles some more and then smiles some more.

"It was alright."

***o*O*o***

"Britt! Over here!"

Brittany can't see Tina but she can hear her voice and she can just make out her hand waving above the throngs of people.

In a short time, she's standing next to them all, Artie's wheelchair loaded with a ton of concert paraphernalia.

"We saw you from where we were sitting," Mike says, sharing a knowing look with Tina as he holds her. "Where's your friend?"

"She went to catch up with her friends," Brittany replies, feeling her cheeks heat up.

"So, I'm guessing you had a good time, then?" Tina asks, relaxing into Mike's embrace.

"Best. Concert. Ever."


	2. Taxicab Confessions

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Okay, for those of you who may not be familiar with my previous story - and I suspect there are quite a few - this story is going to be a compilation of one shots, most of which are going to revolve around the first meeting/hook-up of Brittany and Santana. These are mostly non-canon, although some canon aspects may be sprinkled into the stories just to keep it connected to the show and those characters. This is not like Fifty First Dates or (please no) Groundhog Day. It's fifty different, individual, non-continuous stories. That being said, thanks for reading and reviewing. It helps. A million thanks to my BETA for helping to keep me (just a little bit) sane. Also, while I have fifty different scenarios in mind already (actually it's closer to sixty), they aren't set in stone and I'm still open to suggestiones. Just drop them in a review or PM. Thank again. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>It's beginning to look like rain.<p>

Brittany looks out at the ominous skies and curses her boss for the thousandth time that afternoon.

It pretty much sucks that the guy kept them in a pointless meeting overtime, but if she ends up looking like a drowned rat as a result of his fuckery, her anger will reach Hulk levels.

The day hadn't started out well at all.

First, she'd forgotten to actually put coffee into her coffee maker. A mistake she realized only when she was sliding into a seat on the crowded subway train. She'd tipped her stainless steel travel mug to her lips and swallowed piping hot water and almost spit it out onto a fellow commuter's lap.

Luckily, she didn't.

Also, her first train was running late, and she had to madly dash through her connection dodging people with briefcases and cell phones in hand, moving at the speed of dripping molasses. She'd barely made it through the doors before they were closing on her, but not before she'd snagged her pantyhose on them, causing a visible tear the size of the San Andreas fault.

Then to top it off, she'd left her umbrella at the office in her haste to get away from her boss and, frankly, she doesn't want to run back for fear of bumping into the man and being subjugated to – again – the fact that the firm, while steadily afloat, is struggling to attract new clients.

But…seeing as they are a chronic medical illness treatment facility, shouldn't that be a good thing?

Anyway, the distant sound of thunder rumbles and the sky lights up, a bright white bolt streaking across it and she high-tails it out of the office building, dashing out to the curb when she spots the yellow car rolling down the street.

The light on the top says 'vacant' and she sends a quick prayer up to God, Allah, or Buddha that she's finally having some luck go her way.

But as she reaches out and tugs on the handle, she's surprised to find another hand gripping the door. She looks up, her blue eyes flashing at the pair suddenly gazing at her. She blinks slowly and the other woman smiles, pulling her hand back sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," the woman says, stepping back slightly. "You had it first."

Brittany blinks and straightens up, smiling herself. "Technically it was the same time so…" she nods into the open cab seat. "You take it."

"Okay," the woman says quickly, hopping into the back seat of the car without a second thought. The door slams shut and Brittany can only scoff when the vehicle jerks forward without a moment's hesitation.

Then, just as quickly, it comes to an abrupt halt.

Brittany watches the back door swing open, the woman's head peeking out sheepishly. "Or we can share?" she grins, the look more hopeful than amused.

Brittany feels a slow smile stretch its way across her face and she hauls ass to the cab, sliding into the back, her skirt smoothing across the vinyl seats.

She looks over at her temporary companion and wonders how she didn't notice it before, but the woman is breathtakingly beautiful. Her dark brown eyes shimmer like pools of freshly melted chocolate and her long, dark hair cascades like waves against her shoulders.

Her rack isn't too bad either.

Realizing she's staring at – and maybe even gay-perving over – the woman, Brittany flushes deeply, returning her gaze to the world outside of the cab.

"I'm sorry about that," the woman smiles, her eyes still on Brittany. "I've had sort of a bad day."

"You too?" Brittany asks, returning the smile. "I thought it was just me. Who the fuck invented Wednesdays anyway?" she mutters, glancing down at her legs and picking at the tear in her stockings.

"I'm Santana, by the way," the woman says, holding out a hand for Brittany to take.

There's a moment's hesitation, because something in the woman's smile is making Brittany very uneasy, but she takes her hand, holding on gently as she shakes once, then twice. She's tingling, all over really, but she doesn't exactly know what to attribute that to.

"You're not from around here," Brittany blurts out, then frowns. Where did that even come from?

"Am I that obvious?" the brunette – Brittany notes – says, grinning ruefully.

"You're not," Brittany tells her, still speaking before thinking. "Your accent is though."

"Oh," Santana smiles, shifting in her seat. "So, what's your name again?"

Brittany's coy, suddenly. "I never said it a first time."

"I know that," Santana fires back, a dangerous glint in her eye. "That was my attempt at smoothly asking for it. Did it work?"

"Brittany," she supplies, smiling brightly. "I'm Brittany."

The brunette smiles again and it's kind of…predatory? Brittany isn't really sure but all she knows is, the last time she saw that look the poor baby gazelle didn't stand a chance.

"Well, Brittany, since I am new in town and you're obviously not, maybe you could show me around sometime?" Santana propositions, holding out her card. "Maybe we could go out to eat or something."

Brittany takes the card with trembling fingers, running her thumb over the embossed lettering absently while still holding the other woman's gaze. "That'd be nice."

Santana smirks. "That…is an understatement."

***o*O*o***

Brittany doesn't know what possesses her to call.

But a day later she was in her office, the numbers on the card mocking her and mocking her still as they glowed on her phone, blinking as her finger hovered over the send button.

It was just lunch or maybe dinner…drunch?

Either way, there was nothing the woman said that suggested there was anything else afoot there.

But actions always speak louder than words and the way the woman's fingers brushed over Brittany's, lingering longer than necessary, screamed "THIS IS A DATE!".

Brittany looked down at the card again, debating.

"What the hell?" she finally murmurs, with a shrug. "What's the worst that can happen?"

***o*O*o***

"You're hardly eating."

Brittany stopped ripping up the cloth napkin and looked up at Santana.

Okay, so this was _so_ a date.

Santana had shown up at the restaurant they'd agreed to meet at ten minutes early and dressed like a _freaking super-model_, surprised to find Brittany already there. She made Brittany feel so underdressed in her designer jeans and form-fitting top when she strutted over in that thigh-length mini dress, black, her heels clicking across the hardwood floor.

And when she tugged Brittany up from the stool and gave her a small hug and a light kiss on the cheek, Brittany almost lost composure right then and there because, oh yeah, this was a date.

With a woman.

She was _on_ a date with a woman.

Oh, did we fail to mention she doesn't exactly do that?

Date women that is.

She goes on dates with guys all the time.

"Do you not like the food?" Santana questions again, when she doesn't get an answer. "Because we could always order you something else," she continues, raising her hand to call their server over.

"No," Brittany's quick to say, and just as quickly her hand shoots out to grab Santana's, pulling it back down. "I'm fine. It's just…"

Santana looks over at her but Brittany's watching their hands, watches as her fingers fit right in between the spaces of Santana's perfectly. The brunette squeezes.

"It's just what?"

"I don't usually do this," Brittany manages to say, even though her stomach is knotted up.

"Do what?"

Brittany weakly gestures between them with her free hand. "This. I don't usually do this."

Santana smiles. "You don't usually go on dates with strangers," she says, grinning the whole while.

"That's not what I meant," Brittany says, then thinks about it. "Well, yeah, that too. But, I meant that I don't date…" she lowers her voice, beckoning the brunette closer with a gesture. "…women."

Santana laughs.

She outright laughs and for a moment Brittany wants to laugh too because she's not sure what she said that was so outrageously funny.

She doesn't though.

She just sits there looking, uncomfortable.

Santana notices. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Pretty much. Yeah."

"Well, why didn't you say something?" Santana asks, confused. She still doesn't let go of Brittany's hand though.

Brittany shrugs. "You…you seemed nice. And I thought that maybe…well, it doesn't really matter. I'm telling you now though."

Brittany waits a long while and Santana's quiet, mulling something over while her thumb slowly rubs against the back of Brittany's wrist.

It's very distracting.

"Do…do you want to leave?"

Brittany's head snaps up. "Well, here's the thing. I don't date women, but, I was thinking that maybe I could date…you?"

Santana smiles, but she's still serious. "Are you sure? I don't want you feel like you were forced into anything."

Brittany nods slowly, but eventually a smile works its way across her face. "I'm sure. Look, I really don't know what I'm doing or if I'm even doing it right, but, you're nice and funny, and you have a great smile and smell really awesome. Those are all plusses, right?"

"I'd say so," Santana nods, mockingly serious. "And, for the record," she grins, beckoning Brittany closer with a finger, pressing her lips to the other woman's when she accommodates. "I don't think you could do it wrong."


	3. A Sorta Fairytale

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **So, I was pleasantly surprised to get back home and see so many reviews, favorite, and story alerts. So, as a reward, I'll do a double update today. Not gonna lie, this one is all kinds of cheesy, but, whatever, it's fic, lol. Thanks for reading/reviewing and have a wonderful week. Glee is back in less than a week but I doubt you people need reminding.

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, at the beginning of the school year at Ohio State University, the paths of two people intersected and the set of events that followed was the beginning of a romance for the ages.<p>

Regardless of how unrealistically it started out.

When Brittany met Miguel it wasn't one of those life-changing, soul-rattling, heart-pounding, slow-motion sappy music moments.

In fact, it was so completely ordinary that the outside spectator wouldn't have thought anything of their initial reaction.

"_Yo, girl," the boy called out, jogging half-heartedly to catch up with her. "You dropped this," he said, holding out the pen with the feathery topper._

_Brittany blinked and stared at the object. "That's not mine."_

_Miguel looked back at her, his eyebrows slanted. "But it just fell out of your binder."_

_Brittany blinked gain and shifted her books in her arm, the art history one dangling precariously over the crook of her elbow. She pulled open her binder and low and behold her pen slot was empty. "Oh."_

"_Here," Miguel says simply, more than ready to move on or past or around this girl, but then she smiles at him, taking the pen._

"_Thanks."_

Fast forward to the next meeting and you might again wonder why they ever continued speaking to one another.

_Miguel was running late for practice, and still being a freshman, arriving late meant jock-strap duty and no one wants jock-strap duty._

_But it at least explains why he's rushing across campus like two linebackers are on his ass._

_He's almost at the field when someone touches his left shoulder_.

_His head swivels in that direction but there's no one there and he's about to carry on when he hears the giggle on his right side._

"_Looks like you dropped something this time," Brittany says, holding up his mouth-guard with two fingers. _

"_Thanks," Miguel says, putting the hard plastic in his mouth and grinning when he sees Brittany wrinkling her nose. "What? God made dirt, right?"_

_Brittany nods. "But I touched it."_

"_Well, God made you too," Miguel shrugs, smiling charmingly so. "Sorry to chat and run but I'm _so _late now."_

_Brittany nods, watching him take off into a jog. "No problem. I'll see you around, Lopez."_

_It stuns him at first, her knowing his name._

_But then he remembers that he's wearing his jersey and blushes almost as crimson as the material stretched across his chest._

So, nothing extraordinary. They just…happened.

But they kept happening and well, Brittany couldn't explain it but something inside was drawing her to him. Something, someone maybe, deep down inside was telling her that she needed to be with him.

And Brittany was never really any good at ignoring her impulses so she went with it.

Which brings us to now, here, driving back to Lima, Ohio with Miguel to meet his family and friends.

She'd heard a lot about them all.

She knew about Finn, Miguel's best friend from junior high on up.

She knew about Quinn, Miguel's ex-girlfriend and Finn's current.

She heard about Puck and Tina and Mike and, even, Rachel.

Miguel actually talked about her a lot because the girl used to always follow him around like he was some kind of god.

She knew about his mother and father, successful first generation Americans, who'd found each other amidst a crowd of immigrants and they had one of those life-changing, soul-rattling, slow-motion sappy music moments.

And she knew about his siblings, two sisters, one older and one younger. She'd even seen them on the family portrait Miguel keeps in his dorm room. Sure they were barely out of diapers at the time, but she had seen them nonetheless.

"You're quiet?" Miguel comments, turning onto his old block, his childhood home looming in the distance.

"Nervous," Brittany surmises, shrugging. But she is though. She's really nervous and there's this anticipation in her bones that's almost palpable.

She feels like she's hurtling towards something, some moment, and she is powerless to do anything to stop it.

And then…

It happened.

Miguel pulled into the driveway, killing the engine and unlocking the doors.

There was a dog running up to him, barking happily while its long floppy ears flapped in the breeze.

Brittany stepped out of the car and it was like time stood still, no, she was sure it did. Because the leaf that fluttered in her periphery took forever to hit the ground.

And her heart was thudding against her ribcage, reminding her of that time she ate too many chili-cheese fries.

And she could swear she heard the opening strains of _And I Love Her_, which, wow, because she doesn't even really _like _The Beatles.

She watches as the girl walks down the front steps, smiling at her brother – her boyfriend – who's currently wrapped up in about forty pounds of Labrador. "Hey, big head. Took you long enough to come back home," she grins, smiling down at him.

"Whatever," Miguel dismisses easily, sitting up and chuckling as the dog continues with its excitement. "It's not like you've been down here. You were away too."

"True," the girl says, cocking an eyebrow and planting a hand on her hip. "Where's-"

"Oh, Britt," Miguel says, still wrestling with the dog. "Hey, do me a favor and go get her settled. Snickers and I apparently have a lot of catching up to do."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbles, rolling her eyes and turning to the car. "You're just a lazy…"

Brittany smiles widely. "Hi."

"…ass," the girl concludes, speechless.

It was definitely one of those moments.

***o*O*o***

It is fair to say that Santana Lopez is fairly jealous of her brother.

She loves him to death, in fact, you could even hazard to say that she loves him like a brother, but she's always felt slightly gypped when it comes to Miguel.

For one, he was bigger than her, in spite of her being the oldest.

Now, to most people, this might not seem like a big deal, but for a big sister, life starts to suck when your little brother realizes that you hold no power over him because he can lock you easily into a half-nelson until you're begging him to stop and promising him a month's worth of allowance.

And then there was the gay thing.

Which, really wasn't a problem per se, but it sucked that Miguel could openly flirt and kiss and hold hands and do all of that stuff with any girl and she had to hide in fear of getting knifed or hit or run off the road. Add to that that awkward moment when your father and brother are talking about women and you chime in that Angelina Jolie is the hottest, hands down.

But mostly, right now, she was jealous because here he was dating this incredibly beautiful girl, with the most incredible blue eyes and dazzling white smile and here she was jumping back into the closet every couple of days or so.

It just sucked.

"So, what's your major?" Brittany asks her, her hand dangerously close to Santana's.

They're seated across from each other at the Lopez dinner table. It's unsurprisingly crowded, what with both of the older siblings back in town for the weekend. Finn and Quinn stopped by and even Santana's friend Mike from way back when she didn't know she wanted to wave the rainbow flag.

"Social sciences," Santana says, steadying her hand by grabbing her fork instead of Brittany's. "I like studying human behavior."

Brittany raises an eyebrow. "Are you any good at it? Studying, I mean?"

Santana smirks. "I do okay."

***o*O*o***

Dinner's over and Finn and Miguel and Mr. Lopez all decide to go out to a bar because that's what guys do, even if two of the guys are underage.

The women (and Mike) all stay behind, catching up and chatting like they're all good friends and Brittany's never felt more at ease.

"I'm gonna go cut us up some pie, girls and Mike," Mrs. Lopez says, pushing herself up off the living room sofa. "Who's taking?"

"No thanks, Mrs. L," Mike says, stretching out luxuriously on the floor.

"Count me in, Mama," Santana says, leaning on the armrest of the sofa she's sitting on.

Brittany nods next to her. "Me too."

"Quinn?" Mrs. Lopez questions.

"I'm okay. Thanks though," Quinn says, going back to tapping on her cell phone.

"Okay, three slices coming up then. Mija, please show Brittany where the washroom is so you two can wash up."

***o*O*o***

Santana can feel Brittany's eyes on her.

She can feel them but she doesn't know what she should do.

It's the worst catch-22 she could imagine; two siblings, the best of siblings, having feelings for the same girl.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

The hot water running over her hands suddenly turns cold and she wonders if she somehow switched on the wrong faucet.

"This isn't right, Brittany."

Brittany's hands slide over hers, both under the water, and just like that the water's boiling again. "It's not wrong, either."

***o*O*o***

It's later still and she has Mike hemmed up in the hallway, tugging him behind as they all file into the den.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Mike smirks. "Why Santana, I'm flattered. Although, I didn't think I was your type."

Santana rolls her eyes, her lips only quirking upward before settling back into a frown. "Do you?"

"I'm a firm believer in happily ever after, San. Love at first sight is the stuff fairy tales are made of," Mike tells her, seriously. He peers inside the room and catches a certain blonde looking at the empty doorway, only averting her gaze when Mike catches her. "It's not," he starts, turning back to Santana. "You're not talking about her, are you?"

"I know it's wrong. She's my brother's girlfriend but…" she looks hopeless. "I can't help it Mike. And I don't think she can either."

***o*O*o***

"I need to talk to you."

Miguel nods, still chuckling and putting down his beer. "I'll be right back, guys," he says and Puck and Finn go right back into telling stories from high school.

"What's up, Britt?" he asks, wrapping his bulky arms around her slender frame.

Brittany sighs before pushing his hands away. "We need to break up."

Miguel blinks, and it's so like the first time they met that Brittany almost wants to laugh.

Almost.

He looks hurt for all of a minute. Then his face relaxes into a quiet understanding. "Is it Santana?"

"How did-"

"The first time we met you smiled. I thought you were smiling at me but when I looked behind me there were a few cheerleaders walking by. And then when I saw you again, you were nice, not flirty or anything like the other girls, so I was really shocked when I asked you out and you said yes. Then, the first time you came to my dorm, of all the things for you to get caught up in, you bee-lined straight for my family photo, asked about San," Miguel says, he shakes his head here, a rueful smile on his face. "I dunno, I should have figured it out then. Heaven knows I've had my fair share of experience with women, being brought up with three of them."

"San used to beat me at everything and, as much as I hate to admit it, she may have beaten me here too, even though she's only just started the race."

Brittany's confused, maybe, shocked totally, but it doesn't stop her from giving Miguel the strongest hug she ever has.

"It's cool, Britt," he whispers, hugging her back. "Tell Santana she owes me one though."

***o*O*o***

Santana is usually not a loner, but after hours of torture watching Brittany and Miguel be all couple-y, she decided she needed to get some fresh air.

So now she is outside on their old tire swing, not swinging just propped up against it, pulling her hoodie closer to her body against the chilly night air.

She doesn't expect anyone to come looking for her so when the back door opens and closes, she doesn't even look up.

And when she sees the white converse sneakers in the grass right in front of her she's afraid to look up.

"I broke up with your brother."

Santana looks up, tossing her hair back away from her eyes with a flick of her neck. "Why?"

Brittany smiles and it's warm. Not amused, not embarrassed, just…warm.

"Do you really have to ask?" she whispers, one hand reaching out to grab the rope of the tire swing.

Santana feels a flutter in her chest. "You do realize that this is crazy, right? I mean, we hardly know each other."

"We know enough."

Santana moves her hand to wrap around Brittany's on the rope. "You've dated my brother."

"Dated, as in past tense."

Santana meets her eyes. "You've never dated a girl before."

Brittany isn't sure how she knows that but she doesn't press, opting only to shrug. "First time for everything, I guess. The reality of it is this, when I'm with you, near you, _looking_ at you, the world stops spinning and everything else just fades away, except for us. It's like a fairy tale."

"Do you hear music?"

Brittany nods. "The Beatles _And I Love Her_."

"Stevie Wonder's _My Cherie Amor_," Santana says, pointing at herself and then laughing lightly. "We're quite the pair, huh?"

"That's what I'm hoping," Brittany whispers, leaning in for a kiss that goes on and on and on and on.

And they lived Happily Ever After.


	4. Meant To Be Broken

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**A/N:** Playoffs baby! Okay, I'm done. I swear. Sorry for the delay but, in order to avoid a lull in this story I've established rules. 1. Don't post a new chapter without at least three other completed chapters ready to go. 2. Don't post another chapter without at least five other WIPs in the wings. So far it's working. I've got like six (or four) ready to go right now. But, I'll just do one. This is for the Bulls. And as, awlays thanks for reading and reviewing. Shout out to the best BETA on the planet. Seriously, I feel bad for everyone else because she is awesome. Enjoy this fluffy stuff before the angst that tomorrow night will undoubtedly bring.

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><p>It is Brittany's first time at sleep-away camp and while her little sister makes faces at her from the back of their minivan, her mother kisses her forehead and tells her to be a good girl and follow the rules.<p>

She intends to follow through on both orders but the latter ends up being out of her control when she crosses paths with Santana Lopez.

***o*O*o***

The first time Brittany Pierce sees Santana Lopez she thinks that the girl hates her.

It's not a total miscalculation because at this particular moment in time Santana happens to be glaring daggers at her.

But you see, Rachel's also whispering in her ear. "And you should totally stay away from her. She'll just bring you down," the girl sneers, her eyes glaring daggers right back.

And now Brittany's sure Santana hates her by association.

***o*O*o***

It turns out there are two groups of kids at this camp: the cool crowd that follows the rules and the crowd that thinks it's cool not to.

Brittany isn't sure yet where exactly she lies on that spectrum, but she suspects it's somewhere in the middle.

***o*O*o***

The first words Santana ever says to her are, "I can't believe you're friends with _that_."

Although when Brittany looks at Santana, she's not entirely sure the girl's even speaking to her, since she's not even looking at her.

She's talking about Rachel, of course, and how the girl fawns all over Finn Hudson. Or, at least, that's what she thinks.

"I think she's nice," Brittany says, assuming a response is necessary. It is a common rule to speak when spoken to after all.

Santana scoffs, still not looking at her. "She's not nice. _I'm _nice."

There's a smirk on Santana's face now. "And nice-looking too while we're on the subject."

Brittany's face heats up and Santana just laughs, finally looking at her, her eyes sparkling. "That was too easy," she says, shaking her head slightly. "But you're cute."

"San!" some boy with a mohawk haircut yells. Noah, she thinks his name is. "Come on!"

"See ya' around new girl."

***o*O*o***

Brittany didn't mean to come this way.

Taking Rachel's words to heart meant avoiding Santana and her circle of friends.

But, seeing as she was rooming with Quinn and Santana, it was easier said than done.

"Hey new girl," Santana calls out, raising her hand in a motionless wave. "You play cards?"

Brittany feels all the eyes on her and flushes a little bit. She hunches her shoulders up before ducking her head a little. "I can play Go Fish."

"Loser," Puck coughs/says and they all giggle and snicker, small smiles playing across lips.

All, that is, except Santana.

"Shut it, Noah," she says, shifting her gaze momentarily to glare at the boy before turning back to Brittany, a small, inscrutable smile on her face. "We're playing SlapJack," she says, holding up half a deck of cards. "I can teach you if you want."

Brittany nods and beelines to the girl, plopping down on the grass beside her. It takes a few rounds but pretty soon she has the game down and she's kind of good – so good that Puck pitches a fit midway through the fourth game.

"No fair," he huffs, throwing down his cards. "She's a ringer or something," he continues, pointing an accusatory finger in Brittany's face.

"You're just mad 'cause she's kicking your ass Puckerman," Santana says, flipping over another card. "Stop embarrassing yourself."

Puck sulks and crosses his arms, still moody and Brittany frowns, not wanting to annoy or upset anyone, ever.

But then Santana leans over, her breath tickling her face and her lips accidentally brush against her earlobe. "Ignore him," she whispers, smiling kindly.

And Brittany can't help but ignore him because her mind goes completely blank.

***o*O*o***

"You guys shouldn't go over there," she says, glancing around worriedly. "It's against the rules."

"Oh, great guys," Mercedes says dryly, rolling her eyes. "Saint Brittany's gonna narc on us."

"No she's not," Santana says, slyly sidling up next to Brittany. "She's cool guys. Ain't that right Brittz?" she grins, sliding her index finger down one of Brittany's bare arms. "In fact, you wanna come with?"

Goosebumps rise wherever Santana's finger touches and Brittany shudders slightly…from the cold probably.

She doesn't trust her voice so she shakes her head, pressing her lips together.

"Your loss," Santana sing-songs, starting to walk off. "But don't be a loser Brittany and rat us out to Berry. You'll lose major cool points," the Latina tosses over her shoulder, shining the flashlight into the woods and navigating their way across it.

Brittany stands there until she can't quite make them out anymore before dejectedly walking back to her cabin.

***o*O*o***

Brittany is _so_ not this girl.

She's not the girl that breaks rules – stated or otherwise.

And she's certainly not the girl that breaks curfew and sneaks off into and through the dark woods, stumbling along until she comes across the boys' grounds and a lighted cabin, whispered – though amused – voices coming from within.

She almost chickens out and doubles back, desperate to crawl under the covers and fall back into the mode that is much more like herself.

But then her hand rises up, knuckles rapping lightly against the weather-worn door, and it's too late to do any of that.

It's too late to do anything other than stand stock-still and strain to hear the voices on the other side of the door quiet instantly.

It takes a minute or two but Puck finally comes to the door, (fake) yawning widely and rubbing his eyes.

He can't see her.

"Hmm?" he mumbles, still keeping up the 'I was alseep' act.

"Um…" Brittany starts, and then trails off, peering behind him into the seemingly empty cabin. "Can I come in?"

Puck finally drops his act. "Pierce?" he grouses, annoyed. "For fuck's sake, I thought you were a counselor. Why don't you run along to your own cabin and pray or whatever it is you goody-two-shoes do."

Her lower lips trembles a little but before she can respond Puck winces, his hand reaching up to grab his right ear, and the door he's let go of is suddenly pulled open wider to reveal a grinning Santana.

"Took you long enough," the girl says, wrapping a hand around Brittany's forearm and tugging her inside.

Brittany follows without much of a protest.

***o*O*o***

They're playing Spin The Bottle and so far Puck's kissed Quinn (twice), Santana (once), and right now, as he attempts to kiss Mercedes, he gets a mouth full of weave instead when she turns her head suddenly.

"…the hell, Mercedes?" he grumbles, pulling hair out of his mouth.

"Hey, I may be open to everything but I still have my standards," Mercedes quips, flipping her hair back.

It's all done in jest so Puck just laughs, flexing his arms. "Whatever girl, you know you want this."

"Keep dreaming Puckerman," Mercedes says, rolling her eyes but there's a small grin on her face when she clears her throat. "Whose turn is it?"

Mike grins and points at Brittany and the girl almost jumps when he does.

"Mine?" she asks tentatively, pointing at herself, eyes wide.

"Yep yep," Puck leers, cracking his knuckles. "Give it a good twirl Blondie and watch the Puckasaurus rock your world."

Santana snorts but, other than that, stays silent, waiting on Brittany to take her turn…

***o*O*o***

There's a lot of noise – quiet chants.

"Do it. Do it. Do it."

And Brittany's nervous, and scared, but mostly nervous as Santana leans in.

Her ears are fire red she knows and even though her eyes are losing focus she's sure she can count the number of Santana's lashes.

The distance between them is infinitely small and shrinking and then shrinking again so much that there is none and then Brittany's being kissed…by Santana.

The realization alone is enough to paralyze her and she just freezes there, unresponsive and stunted. It feels…weird maybe, maybe not. Then Santana shifts slightly and it's definitely not weird. It's so not weird that Brittany can hear the blood rushing to her head, heating up her face and making her heart beat in her lips. The same lips brushing, mashing, twisting against Santana's.

The same lips being nibbled on, tugged on, sucked on by Santana's.

It's almost too much but then it's not enough because Santana's pulling away slowly, her eyes open and watching Brittany and the blonde really wishes that she could just die somewhere because – unwittingly, of course – she lets out the most embarrassing whimper.

The room is howling loudly – well, as loud as they can be without getting caught – and both she and Santana are settling back into their respective places.

She – pushing her bangs out of her face, fingers unconsciously tripping over swollen lips.

Santana – grinning and pulling her own bottom lip between her teeth.

And while Brittany could be thinking about how embarrassed she is or how _bad _she's being tonight, only one thought is scrolling across her brain.

"I kissed a girl…

…and I liked it."

***o*O*o***

"Good Morning."

Brittany squints open her eyes and finds Rachel hovering over her, her smile brilliant and white. "Did you sleep well?"

Brittany nods and sits up, her back aching from sleeping on the crappy camp mattress.

They probably got them all discounted from the Salvation Army.

"Well, get a move on. We're having blueberry pancakes for breakfast," Rachel says, twirling briskly and floating out of their cabin.

Her other cabin mates are gone, she can tell because Santana's bed is made and Quinn's, well, Quinn's isn't, but the usually discarded pillows are placed on it so she knows the girl isn't still sleeping there.

She's kind of happy about that actually because she doesn't know how she would act around Santana today, especially after last night.

They'd kissed sure and they'd hung out – Santana literally stayed glued to her side last night – and when they finally left the boys' cabin at some ungodly hour, Santana's linked arms with her the whole way, only pulling away when they'd quietly snuck back into their own cabin.

But she's still that good girl who doesn't break the rules and Santana seems to make her want to forget the rulebook exists.

So these are the thoughts she has all through getting ready – while showering in the lukewarm water provided by the restroom facilities, while pulling clean clothes over her still damp skin, while brushing her teeth and staring at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if something about her has, in fact, changed, and while walking out of the rest room and finding Santana leaning against a tree, waiting on her.

Well, no, that's not right.

Is it?

"Hey." Santana's voice is soft, softer than she can ever remember it being.

"Hi," Brittany whispers, her voice betraying her.

Santana's fingers twist together. "You want to go for a walk?" she asks, nervousness flashing across her features before her face settles back into its confident bravado look.

Brittany just nods, following mutely after the other girl and they meander through the woods, away from everyone and everything else.

And all of Brittany's thoughts about rules and how things are supposed to be come crashing together when Santana reaches for her hand, lightly twining their fingers together.

"This is okay, right?" Santana asks quietly, gesturing to their hands.

"I honestly don't know."

Santana's looks is questioning and it does nothing to help Brittany's confusion.

"We kissed," Brittany says, tilting her head.

"It was a game," Santana says, shrugging.

"No," Brittany shakes her head, trying to will her thoughts to come out verbally. "We kissed. And I liked it."

Santana grins. "Lips are lips, Britt-Britt. Who's it matter who they belong to?"

"I liked it and…" Brittany trails off, stopping their movement and turning to face the slightly shorter girl. "I like…you. But, I'm not sure if I should."

Santana brings their clasped hands up, her lips ghosting against the back of Brittany's wrist. "Why?"

"Because it's not right. It's…" _against the rules. It's against all of the rules._

"Who says?"

"Everyone," Brittany answers, her eyes earnest.

But," Santana starts, tugging Brittany closer, and wrapping the blonde's arm around her waist. "We're not everyone." She pulls the other arm around so that Brittany is gently encircling her waist. Her own arms drape over the taller girls shoulders, her hands clasped warmly at the nape of her neck. "And I for one don't think that this is wrong. It feels too right to be."

Brittany's never been a rule breaker.

It's not really her style. But right then in those woods, when she dives in and presses her lips unhurriedly against Santana's, she decides that maybe some rules were meant to be broken.


	5. Plungers R' Us

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing. However if I did own, I'd never torture my faithful audience by going months on end without new material. *shrugs*Just saying.

**A/N #1:** So, I had to do it, okay. The show just set me up too damn good.

**A/N #2:**Thanks for reviewing and stuff. It's almost as good as...a chocolate sundae. Mmm. Is it Sunday yet? I gave up chocolate for Lent. Oh, and I may double post since my brithday's coming up and I feel good. A special thank you to my Beta, again. You my rock, girl.

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><p>Okay, so Brittany's not incompetent.<p>

She's not.

She just tends to take on more than she can handle.

Like, when she decided she was going to be a kickboxer. She signed up for some classes and got some equipment and even made it as far as her first bout, where she quickly realized that getting kicked – anywhere – was not exactly something she liked to experience.

Or, when she told everyone she was going to open a restaurant but forgot that her culinary expertise started and ended at peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Honestly.

She even manages to burn hot dogs.

Or when she bought this house; the quaint bungalow needed a little work but it was nothing she couldn't handle – except she somehow managed to make the hole in the roof even bigger when she tried to patch it.

So, the point is, Brittany has the tendency to bite off more than she can chew.

Always has.

And that's why now she's sitting on her kitchen floor, tools and PVC pipe scattered all over the place, a steady stream of water dripping from the shut off valve under the sink.

She'd reach out to her boyfriend for help but that would require him actually knowing what a wrench is.

She sighs heavily, casting the heavy wrench in her hand aside and reaching for her cell phone instead.

Time to throw in the towel.

***o*O*o***

Luckily for her, the plumbing service she'd selected is in the middle of a slight slump and they had maintenance crews ready and waiting so it was only a little more than an hour before her doorbell sounded, announcing the plumber's arrival.

There's a smile on her face when she pulls open the door and it only falters slightly when she sees who's on the other side.

"Hi."

Brittany can't speak.

Seriously, she can't.

Speaking would require thinking – a process she's entirely incapable of at the moment, unless, of course, thinking somehow involves gaping at strangers.

Because if that's thinking, she's got that covered.

The woman standing on her porch is so breathtakingly gorgeous that she wonders vaguely if she may have dialed the wrong number.

You know, maybe an escort service.

"Um, you did need a plumber didn't you?"

Brittany blinks once, twice, and then nods.

Maybe she's turned into one of those animatronics robots like they have at Chuck E. Cheese.

"Great," the plumber smiles, jiggling her bag of tools a little. "But, just so you know, I can't actually fix anything from your front porch. Just saying."

_That_ got Brittany talking.

"Oh," she blurts out, slapping her forehead absently even as she flushes beet red. "I'm so sorry. You're…the plumber and I'm just standing here like an idiot," she rushes out, moving out of the doorway to allow the woman entry.

"It's alright," the woman chuckles knowingly, squeezing past Brittany. "I get that sometimes."

Brittany wants to ask what that means but she's too transfixed.

And, she's not gay, okay? She's not. But, if she were, this woman could totally get it.

"So what's the problem?" the woman asks, looking around. "Hot water running cold? Bathtub draining too slow? Backed up toilet?"

"Actually…" Brittany hedges, slowly leading the woman back to her kitchen. "It's kinda all of the above."

The plumber's jaw drops and then so does her bag. "Good God woman, who's been in your kitchen? Edward Scissorhands?"

Brittany's face reddens again and she looks away shyly. "I tried to fix it myself a little bit and I think I made even more of a mess of things."

"Well, no shit," the woman says before thinking and Brittany actually pouts.

"Just kidding Miss…"

"Brittany," the blonde fills in. "Just, Brittany."

"Okay, well _Brittany_," she drawls, smirking a little. "Don't worry your pretty little head about this. I'll have you back in business in no time."

***o*O*o***

There are a lot of sounds coming from Brittany's kitchen.

Grunty, moany, sexy sounds.

And Brittany – although she can't put her finger on why – is getting kind of turned on.

Which is absolutely ludicrous, right? Because she isn't gay.

I mean, sure she finds Angelina Jolie attractive but who _doesn't_?

And she idolizes Ellen DeGeneres but then again, so does her Nana.

And, yeah, that one time, at band camp she made out with Melissa Parkinson by the dock, but that was only on a dare and because she really wanted to see what it was like, but whatever, she isn't gay.

She has a boyfriend.

Never mind that the guy has as much fashion sense and macho bravado as Carson Kressley.

Huh, would you look at that?

"Brittany?"

The blonde leaps to her feet, startled out of her thoughts by the plumber's voice.

"Yeah?" she calls back after a second, realizing that the woman couldn't have possibly heard her thoughts.

"Could you help me out in here for a second?"

"Sure," Brittany calls back, standing stock-still in the living room until she realizes that 'in here' probably meant the kitchen.

You know, where the other woman actually is.

God, she is acting like such a spazz right now.

Brittany gathers up all the courage she has and marches into her kitchen where she somehow manages not to let her knees buckle because her libido literally implodes.

Under her sink, under _her_ kitchen sink, lying on her back, is the most gorgeous woman ever in nothing but a tank top and cargos. The tank top has ridden up a bit revealing an almost impossibly perfect set of abs, and she can see lean, tanned arms flexing and retracting as the woman works on the pipes.

That sounds kind of dirty.

"Brittany?"

The blonde makes a strangled noise which she guesses could pass off as a 'yes'.

"Could you hand me the adjustable wrench?"

Brittany swallows thickly.

It is so unbelievable how freaking turned on she is.

"Uh, sure," she says, a tremor in her voice.

If the other woman notices, she doesn't act like it, just holding out her arm and waiting patiently for Brittany to deliver the tool.

Brittany walks over and grabs the wrench off the floor, where it was resting near the other woman's boot clad foot. She kneels down and obediently places the tool in the woman's outstretched hand…and doesn't let go.

The woman's head snaps up, her attention now on Brittany. "Um…what are you doing?"

Brittany feels like – and probably looks like – a deer caught in the headlights. "I…don't know?"

The plumber smirks, tugging on the wrench a little harder, Brittany's entire body jerking forward with the pull. "Sure about that?"

Brittany lets her eyes wander, drifting from the woman's eyes and over full lips, a remarkable chest, heaving slightly, and down further to trace the contours of those magnificent abs.

It is _so_ hot in here.

The woman grins again, the fingers on her hand skipping down to trace delicately along the back of Brittany's wrist. "You know, maybe I should check out the plumbing in the bathroom as well," she shrugs casually, the look in her eyes anything but. "As long as I'm here."

***o*O*o***

Brittany never really cared for that shower curtain anyway.

Who the hell likes ducks?

So when she fisted it in a moment of passion and yanked on it when she came for the – _hmm, I don't know_ – thousandth time, she didn't really mourn over its loss.

"You broke your shower curtain," the woman mumbles, still thrusting into her.

Brittany's back is flush against her shower wall and the woman's body is hot in front of her, and while any other time the alternating temperatures might annoy her or at least be a little distracting, right now it's just another thing adding to the pleasure.

The intense, toe-curling, mind-blowing pleasure.

"I don't care," she mutters weakly, her head falling forward to press against the other woman's. "Just…keep kissing me."

"Yes Miss Brittany," the plumber chuckles hoarsely, leaning in to kiss already bruised lips.

Brittany clutches tightly at the woman, kissing her back with equal fervor, her fingernails raking across her back; but when the woman curls her fingers inside her, she hisses slightly, pulling back and gasping for air.

Good thing, they decided to turn the water off.

She'd probably drown or something.

"God, you're so good at that. I would yell out your name but I keep forgetting to ask it," she whispers out, her words clipped and rushed.

A rusty chuckle floats up to her ear, and then the woman's mouth is there, tugging on her earlobe with her teeth. "It's Santana. And Brittany, you ain't seen nothing yet."

With those words she withdraws, pulling a whimper out from deep within the blonde's chest.

Blue eyes blink open and focus enough – barely focus enough – to follow a smirk until it disappears somewhere between her legs.

…

…

….

"_Santana_!"

"Told you."

***o*O*o***

Brittany's hair is still wet, which only serves as a reminder as to what she has just done and the clanging noises from the kitchen are back, reminding her of who she had been doing them with.

Her body is still ringing, vibrating all over, and while she is sated enough to fall over in a heap and just sleep for days, the warring guilt keeps her alert enough that it isn't really a possibility.

She is a woman.

She's just had sex with a woman.

Correction: She's just had amazing sex with an incredibly attractive woman.

And she wants to do it again.

Often.

Even though she has a boyfriend.

That's where the guilt comes in.

She's actually so caught up in her thoughts that she doesn't notice Santana until she's standing right next to the loveseat she's sitting on, clearing her throat.

"I'm finished up in there," Santana says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

"Right," Brittany says, jumping to her feet. She scrambles for her wallet, pulling out her checkbook, her hands shaking a little even as she clicks her pen open. "How much do I owe you?"

Santana's hands fall over her own, stilling hers. Brittany looks up and catches Santana's gaze and her breath catches. "I'd just really, _really_ like to see you again."

Brittany's heart stutters to a stop before jump-starting back to life, thudding against her ribcage like a jackhammer. "I have a boyfriend."

She kind of hates the way she says that.

Like, all rushed and non-tactful, and completely insensitive but Santana's just smiling, _still_, her eyes dancing in…amusement maybe?

"It's not cheating if the plumbing's different."


	6. Easy As ABC

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**A/N: **Last one and then I'm done for the week. Gleecap in twenty words or less: Mike Chang for the world, Santana is a BAMF, and filler is necessary...I guess.

Oh and a quick story - and those of you who are not interested just keep scrolling - but I have this friend, who recently got into Glee because now there's a lesbian on it (confirmed) and she's one of those straight girls that is into all things lesbian because she's open-minded (whatever, I don't judge). Anyway, she says to me, "I totally support Brittana but, it sort of came out of nowhere for me." And I conceded and said, "Okay, so if Brittana came out of nowhere, where did Bartie come from?" She didn't have an answer. But I do. Hell.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. Beta, you rock. Enjoy guys!

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><p>Santana's life looked perfect.<p>

She'd married the perfect guy, given birth to the perfect son, and lived in the perfect neighborhood, in the perfect house, with the perfect front lawn surrounded by the perfect white picket fence.

And just last year she gave it all up.

Why, you ask?

Santana Lopez was G-A-Y.

Yeah, she was pretty shocked about it too.

***o*O*o***

_The television is still on mute and Shane is going down on Carmen in the studio when the activities under the covers come to a sudden halt._

_Santana lifts up the sheets and peeks down at Sam, a single brow raised in question. "What?" she asks._

_He looks pensive, and surprisingly not as horny as one should look when getting it on with someone like her. "This is kind of gay, Santana."_

_Her cheeks, already flushed in arousal, redden further. "It's not. Sexuality isn't black and white and just because I like to watch _The L Word_ while you eat me out doesn't mean that I'm gay."_

"_No," Sam agrees, crawling back up slowly. "It just means that you're a lesbian."_

_Santana frowns, pushing him off of her and turning on her side, and taking all of the blankets with her._

_She's pissed now, and sexually frustrated, and is probably going to have to sleep with a massive lady-boner._

_Stupid Sam._

_He doesn't know what he's talking about._

***o*O*o***

Well, as it turns out, Sam was kind of (all the way) right about her being a lesbian.

A stiletto-wearing, camo-jacket toting, L Word-watching lesbian.

Sam took it surprisingly well…for a guy who was losing his wife to a bunch of sparkle-snatchers, that is.

***o*O*o***

_This was starting to become embarrassing._

_Sam honks into his handkerchief again, sniffling loudly with red-rimmed eyes._

"_Is it me?" he chokes out, his breath stuttering. "Is it because I'm not circumcised because I told you-"_

"_For the last time, no. Sam it is _not _you. It's me," she says, idly rubbing his back. "I'm attracted to women. It has nothing to do with you."_

"_It doesn't?"_

_And while Santana is not the nicest of people, she had her good points. "No, you're an awesome guy and an even better fuck. Any woman with two eyes and an inclination for being pounded would be all over you." She had to toss the guy a bone, right?_

"_Really?"_

"_Actually, your penis is kind of small."_

_Fuck it._

_Being nice is for pussies._

_Sam starts crying again._

***o*O*o***

Anyway, that was two years ago.

And in those two years Sam has remarried (a nice Christian girl named Quinn or something) and she's dated more women than should be legal (sue her, alright, it's called making up for lost time) and they've somehow managed to come out of it even closer than before, co-parenting and co-existing effortlessly in one another's lives.

S.J. – Sam Junior – would alternate weeks at his parents' houses, but they still managed to shuffle their schedules around enough that they both got to see him for some amount of time every day.

Santana would pick him up and enjoy a nice breakfast out – _because, no, this right here does not cook_ - and drop him off at school, earlier than the other kids. And Sam would pick him up in the evenings, take him to the park or something – _to burn off some of that excess energy because the kid has his mother's stamina_ – and then home to whose ever house he was staying at for the week.

And so it went, every day, until unexpectedly, little S.J. decided he wanted his mother to start picking him up from school.

***o*O*o***

"_Please Mama?"_

"_Nino, why do want me to pick you up all of a sudden?"_

_S.J. shrugs, kicking his legs out under the counter, nursing his glass of strawberry-flavored milk._

"_So you don't have a reason?"_

_The boy puts his glass down, a light pink milk-mustache on his upper lip. "I just want my mom to pick me up sometimes. The other kids don't think I have one."_

_Santana still looks skeptical. Call him cute all you want, but S.J. was his mother's son and manipulation was a skill they'd both worked to perfection._

"_Please?" the boy pleads again, his adorable grin made even more adorable by the absence of two front teeth._

"_Okay. I'll call your dad and tell him I'm picking you up this afternoon."_

***o*O*o***

And so today, Santana waiting outside in her car for S.J. to get out of school.

She's left work earlier than usual and is still dressed for it, pin-stripe black blazer and skirt, with a crisp white blouse underneath, the top buttons undone to show a very minimal but still effective amount of cleavage.

Just because she's a mom doesn't mean she can't look hot, okay.

When the bell rings, announcing dismissal, Santana's head snaps up, instantly scanning the school yard for her particular little blonde head of hair.

Then she realizes she's not sure where exactly S.J. comes out at.

Pushing the notes she is working on away, Santana's out of the car in a flash, turning heads as she dashes across the school yard in four-inch heels, never missing a beat.

Yep, she's got it like that.

***o*O*o***

S.J. was not born yesterday.

He knows some stuff even though he probably shouldn't.

Like, he knows his mom likes girls and not boys and even though Granddad thinks it's all kinds of wrong – _God didn't make us that way, blah, blah, blah _– he doesn't think so at all. Besides, his mom is happy and when his mom is happy so is he because that always means Happy Meals and random trips to Toys R Us.

So, about a week ago, when Malcolm Jones got up the nerve to ask their teacher if she had a husband, his face redder than, well, something really red, and she said 'No. I don't have a husband. And, I'm going to be honest with you kids, I probably never will. You see, some people like girls and some people like boys. I happen to be in the group that likes girls,' the light bulb above Sammy Junior's seven year old little head burned bright.

He sees his mother coming and instantly turns away from her, marching straight over to his teacher and tugging on her hand.

The woman turns and smiles at him, and, out of the corner of his eye, S.J. sees his mother's gait slow tremendously.

He smiles back.

***o*O*o***

"Hi," Santana breathes out, finally finding S.J and, really, finally finding her voice. She'd been staring for a good twenty seconds or so.

"Hi," his teacher replies brightly, her blue eyes dancing with mirth. "You must be S.J.'s mom," she says, holding out a hand for her to shake.

"That would be me," Santana answers, shaking her hand and marveling in how soft they are. She reluctantly lets go. "How'd you know?"

"He looks like you," the woman says and Santana raises an eyebrow at that because aside from the brown eyes they both share, S.J. is Sam's mini-me. His teacher laughs and the sound is pure sweetness. "I meant, he's a beautiful boy so it's only fitting his mother be beautiful too."

Santana's cheeks redden and she ducks her head a little, brushing some hair behind her ear. She clears her throat. "Thanks."

"Mama, guess what?" S.J. says, making his presence known again. "Miss Brittany isn't going to marry a boy either."

It's the teachers turn to blush now and she smiles embarrassingly, tousling S.J.'s towhead gently, feeling Santana's eyes on her. "Um, one of the little ones asked if I had a husband."

"Oh," Santana nods. "So you're…?"

"Yes," the woman says, catching Santana's eye. "That's not a problem is it? I mean, I usually try to keep my personal life and professional life separate but when Malcolm asked I didn't want to lie-"

"It's fine," Santana dismisses easily, stopping the rambling woman with a slight brush of her hand against the other woman's forearm. "It's more than fine."

"Oh yeah?" Brittany asks, a raised eyebrow looking more flirtatious than questioning.

"Definitely."

***o*O*o***

"C'mon S.J. get a move on! We're gonna be late!" Santana calls upstairs before grabbing her keys off the kitchen counter and bee-lining to the garage.

She hears S.J.'s hurried footsteps behind her and grins, hopping into the driver's side of the car.

S.J. jumps into the back, buckling up before even having to be prompted to.

"Okay, everybody have everything?" Santana asks, starting up the car.

S.J. shouts out 'yes'.

"Actually, I am missing something…"

Santana looks over at Brittany, her brow creased in confusion. "What?"

Brittany leans over the armrest and presses her lips against the other woman's, Santana smiling into the embrace. It's soft and gentle yet heated enough to send Santana's mind into a whirlwind of illicit activities – most of which should not even come to mind in the presence of the little guy in the backseat.

'Okay," Brittany breathes, pulling away, her eyes sparkling. "I'm good now," she winks, settling back into her own seat.

Santana grins. "Good."


	7. The Best Of Friends

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Happy Tuesday! Glee Day! I hope everyone had a nice weekend. So, here's an update and I have only three things to say: 1) All you newbies feel free to Facebook me. I have an author's account on there that you can get to from my profile page on here. 2) That other Glee fic I've been working on? Yeah, not sure if you guys know about that one, but check it out too if you'd like. 3) Someone told me I should try and start a LiveJournal and I totally would but I can't because I don't know how, so...if anyone out there would like to help me just let me know.

Okay, here's the chapter. I hope you guys like it. Thanks for reading and reviewing. And a special thanks to my Beta who I know I've been driving crazy lately with these insomnia-born stories.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for shopping with us. Have a nice day."<p>

Santana handed the lady her change and then promptly unscrewed her jaw, her face morphing from a cheeky grin to a grimace.

She hated working in this stupid store with these stupid customers and these stupid store managers with a tendency to walk into inanimate objects.

Actually, there's only _one_ store manager that does that.

_One more year_ she thinks, rolling her eyes as the automatic doors chime, signaling yet another patron.

"Well, I don't know what _that_ look's for."

Santana pauses mid-frown and then smiles wide, her eyes finding another pair glittering in amusement.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to rescue you," Quinn says, walking over and pulling a pair of sunglasses off of a mannequin. "These are kind of cute."

Santana nods. "They look good on you."

"How much are they?"

"Eighteen fifty."

Quinn promptly drops the glasses. "They're not that cute."

Santana snickers, eyes darting up when another customer comes into the store. "Seriously, though, what are you doing here?"

"I told you; I'm rescuing you. So clock out and come on."

"I can't just…leave."

"Why not?" Quinn asks, picking up a scarf and running it through her fingers. "I know for a fact that Finn's in charge tonight and we both know you have him wrapped around your little finger. Just show him a little cleave and we'll be in the clear."

"Ew," Santana scoffs. "I'm not whoring myself out just to go…where are we going exactly?"

"Puck's got a gig at The Bronco," Quinn says casually, shrugging. "I just figured we'd give him some support."

"You just _figured_ that you'd spend the night humping him with your eyes, asshole. I _know_ you, remember?"

"I know you too. And that means knowing you'd do anything for your one and only best friend," Quinn says, batting her eyelashes. "Especially if booze is involved."

Santana is not convinced.

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "And if you don't go I'll tell Mrs. Lopez who you really spent the night with last Thursday."

Santana narrows her eyes. "Fine," she mutters.

Quinn laughs freely. "That's what I thought," she says, backing away and out of the store. "Haul ass Lopez. I don't have all day." the blonde loudly calls over her shoulder.

***o*O*o***

Ten minutes later, Santana's hopping into Quinn's car and pulling on her seatbelt.

"Two more minutes and I was leaving your ass," the blonde says, shifting the car into drive and pulling off.

"Whatever," Santana mumbles, rolling her eyes. She reaches into the middle console compartment and thumbs through Quinn's (and hers) burned CD collection, pulling out a disc and putting it into the player.

Quinn groans aloud when the music starts floating out of her car's speakers. "What is it with you and the Alanis Morrisette phase? Like, get out of the 90s already."

"Shut your mouth, Q. This stuff is like, timeless."

Quinn watches Santana check her vibrating cell phone. "So is Nirvana's _Nevermind_ but you don't see me blasting that shit every day."

"Just drive, Q," Santana says with a sigh, tucking her phone back into her sweatshirt pocket and turning to look out of the window.

The blonde's quiet for a while, pensive. "If you want me to be with you when you tell her, you know I will be, right?"

Santana keeps her eyes on the passing scenery. "I know."

"Hell, I'll even say I am too. She already thinks I'm the reason you swear and drink, I might as well pull off the trifecta."

That gets a smile out of Santana. "Thanks but no thanks. If her reaction is anywhere near where I think it's going to be, I wouldn't risk your safety. I'm her daughter so she won't touch me, but you…"

"Just saying," Quinn shrugs, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Besides, we're assuming the worst here. She could have a reaction like mine."

"_Q?"_

_Quinn takes a long pull on the joint they're sharing, eyes already twice glazed over._

_She's baked._

"_Hmm?"_

_Santana's words fail her. "Ihafta tellyousomethin'," she says, her words running together like they're sprinting after each other to a finish line._

_Quinn hands her back the joint, letting her body relax back against the ground. They're in Quinn's backyard, the stars shining bright above them. "So tell me."_

_Santana takes a deep breath and forgets to let it out, so that when she finally does speak it's almost like she's gasping for air. "I think I may be kinda gay."_

_The Latina waits with bated breath for Quinn's response._

_The other girl blinks once, then twice._

"_You think you can make tiramisu in an Easy Bake Oven?"_

_Santana gapes at her. "What?"_

"_Tiramisu?" Quinn repeats, turning her head to look at her. "You know that cake with the creamy stuff inside it. My Nana makes it. You think we could make it in an Easy Bake Oven or would the gooey stuff just run all over the place?"_

"_Q," Santana starts, not quite believing her ears. "I just told you the most important thing, that I'm," she lowers her voice slightly, not actually realizing that she was being loud in the first place. "…gay and all you can think about is tiramisu?"_

"'_Course not. I heard you. And after I get my cake we're gonna go online and find some gay bars and stuff but right now, I really wants me some tiramisu," the blonde says, pushing herself to her feet and holding out a hand for Santana. _

_The other girl takes it, biting back a smile and slowly shaking her head._

"Your little sister was so pissed we broke her Easy Bake Oven," Santana laughs, letting the memory wash over her.

"Whatever," Quinn shrugs, smiling too. "That little snot deserved it for telling Dad that the funny smell coming from the basement wasn't incense."

***o*O*o***

"You're early," Puck comments, sidling over to the girls as another band warms up. He grins at Quinn.

She shrugs. "It wasn't intentional," she murmurs, feigning disinterest. "Santana here just lurves her some free liquor."

"Shut up, Q," Santana mutters, putting down her shot glass and motioning to the bartender for another.

"You didn't say 'hi', egghead," Quinn admonishes Puck, slapping his forearm lightly – an excuse to touch him really.

Puck rolls his eyes but peeks over the girl's shoulder to Santana. "What's up Lopez?"

"Noah," Santana replies curtly, not paying him too much attention.

"I got you guys a table," Puck says, sticking out his chest proudly. "It's in the back and all but it's still reserved. I'm coming up in the world."

"Look out world," Santana deadpans, snickering loudly and Quinn chuckles too, rubbing his arm in consolation.

"You're gonna do great babe," Quinn tells him, squeezing his arm and kissing him on the cheek, the lips.

Puck brightens at that and stumbles away, euphoric, and Santana simulates gagging.

"Why are you so mean to him?" Quinn says, finally taking her eyes off the boy.

"I'm not. I'm just balancing it out because his ego inflated every time you say anything to him. Gotta keep the guy grounded," Santana says, holding her beer bottle.

"You know what your problem is?" Quinn says, getting up and pulling the other girl from the bar, carrying her beer back with them.

"Nope, but, I bet another shot you're gonna tell me."

"You won't come out all the way because you've never been in a serious relationship with another girl."

"That's ridiculous," Santana shrugs off.

"No it's not. Think about it," Quinn says, sitting down at their table, Santana sitting across from her. "You won't tell your mom because what if you do and this all turns out to be some kind of phase? Some foray into the land of carpet-munchers spawned from too many episodes of _Skins_."

"You're crazy," the other girl dismisses.

"It's not that crazy," Quinn says, taking a swig of her beer. "And even though you won't say it I know I'm right."

Santana just rolls her eyes and takes another drink of her beer.

***o*O*o***

Even though she really hates to admit, Puck's band is pretty good.

And as much as she really, _really_, hates to admit this, Quinn was dead on earlier.

She's terrified of finding out that she's not what she thinks she is.

It's like she feels like she knows, she's pretty sure she knows, but then again she doesn't know, you know?

Oh shit.

She's kinda drunk.

"Drunk confession time," she mumbles, her mouth feeling like its moving through its own volition.

Quinn looks away from the boy on stage for a moment, cutting her gaze to her best friend. "Shoot."

"I've never actually kissed a girl before."

Quinn's face scrunches up in confusion. "Yes you have. I know for a fact that you've kissed a girl."

"You don't count," Santana says.

"But what about the girl last week?"

Oh yes, the person Santana spent last Thursday night with.

Her first actual date with another gay girl.

It had gone well, unbelievably well, and as they were saying good night (the girl: inside her car, the driver's side window rolled down. Santana: standing just beside that door, eyes gazing endlessly into the other girl's) she chickened out, mumbling a quick "See you, later" and feeling like such a pussy that she didn't go over to Quinn's place after like they'd planned, opting to spend the night in their old tree-house instead.

"She wanted me to kiss her," Santana mumbles miserably, propping her elbow up on the table and resting her head on her hand. "I could tell she did. But I just…punked out."

Quinn makes a noise in the back of her throat, much like the one the doctors make during a physical. Then she breaks into a wide grin. "Well, then, we'll just have to remedy that."

Santana knows that look all too well. "I don't think I like where this is going."

Quinn grabs her hand and yanks her up, moving swiftly to the entrance of the club. When they get there, she turns so that she's standing directly in front of the other girl, her hands resting on her shoulders.

"Do you trust me?" she asks.

Santana shrugs. "As far as I can throw you."

"That'll work," Quinn nods. "Now, here's what you're going to do. The very next girl that comes into this bar, you're going to walk over to her and plant one on her."

Drunk Santana no follow.

"Plant what on her?"

"A kiss, duh," Quinn says, rolling her eyes.

Santana's eyes widen. "Whoa. No."

"What? Why? Three reasons."

"I can give you four."

Quinn nods, raising an eyebrow. "Go."

"Um…let's see. One: I've never done it before. Two: _hello_. Stranger," she mockingly waves her hand here. "Three: I'm drunk as _hell_…." she trails off.

"And four?"

Santana frowns. "I don't want to."

"Those aren't good enough. Look, you _need _to do this. Get it over with and out of your system and if you get loco in your pants then, yeah, maybe there's something to this gay thing. Plus, if whoever it is tries to deck you, I got your back."

Santana's fuzzy logic accepts this but mostly because Quinn's talking too fast for her to keep up. She nods half-heartedly and Quinn grins, moving aside.

***o*O*o***

It takes about ten minutes but the doors to the Bronco finally wing open and Santana's heart just about explodes out of her chest she's so anxious, but she lets out a breath in relief when some lanky Asian boy struts in.

She nearly collapses she's so relieved but he's holding the door open and in behind him walks the most gorgeous girl she's ever seen, like ever.

And she's known Quinn her whole life so that's saying something.

She almost forgets about what she's supposed to do she's staring so hard, but then Quinn's clearing her throat and giving her a look and she remembers instantly.

It takes a couple of steps but within seconds she's standing in front of the girl, blocking her path and reaching out shaking hands to grasp onto bare shoulders.

She watches the bluest eyes widen in surprise but she just swallows, closing her own and leaning in.

***o*O*o***

It lasts longer than she expects it to but she thinks maybe the stranger girl pushes away before she pulls away and Santana's stumbling back unsteadily, too much liquor swimming in her system.

"Please don't hit me," she mumbles, looking to the shocked girl in front of her.

"What'd you do that for?" the girl asks, her eyes darting over to her friend. He just shrugs. Santana's kind of thrown off because if that had been her and some random person just up and kissed _her_ she'd punch first and ask questions later. But the girl in front of her doesn't look angry, just shocked; completely and utterly shocked.

"My friend…she said…and then you…" Santana can't find the words to explain herself and thankfully Quinn steps in, coming to her friend's aide.

"It was a bet," she says, throwing an arm around the Latina. "You know, make out with the next person who steps into the bar."

"Oh," the girl says, and she sounds almost…disappointed, her shoulders falling. "I thought," she licks her lips, running a hand through her hair, her long, golden hair. "Well, it doesn't matter what I thought."

Santana's heart is beating so loud that's it's drowning out almost all other sound and all she can hear is the other girl, the stranger she's just randomly kissed. "What did you think?"

The girl's eyes find hers. She shrugs. "I thought…well, I thought maybe you liked me. And I know, yeah, it's crazy because you don't even _know_ me, so like, how could you and I'm just gonna stop talking now," the blonde mumbles, her cheeks aflame. "Um, yeah. Bye."

The blonde grabs for her friend's elbow and the boy is bemused even though he kind of glares at Santana and Santana's so shocked now that she doesn't know what to do or how to move or what to say-

"Wait!"

Quinn, the blonde and her friend all jump.

"Jesus, Santana," Quinn hisses, her hand pressed against her chest. "Indoor voice."

"I'm sorry," Santana mumbles, ducking from under Quinn's arm and walking over to the other girl. "And what if I do? Like you that is?" she asks shyly, her foot tapping restless against the hardwood floor as she stands, waiting.

The girl smiles and drops her friend's arm, reaching for Santana's hand, holding it in her left hand, palm side-up. She pulls a pen out of her front pocket and scribbles something there, curling the Latina's fingers over it when she's done. "Then do something about it," the blonde coyly says, her smile more flirtatious this time. She takes her friend's elbow and he chuckles softly before moving with her into the club, ducking in with the rest of the patrons.

Quinn waits until they're gone before racing over and grabbing Santana's hand, reading what's written upside down, and not bothering to speak to her because Santana – yeah, she's on cloud nine or something.

Ten digits are scrawled below a name:

Brittany.

Quinn looks at her. "Best. Friend. Ever."


	8. A Shot At Love

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I'm not going to even lie, this one is sappy as hell. But in a good way, I think. Still sappy as hell though. I am humbled and appreciative of the reviews as always, so thanks to you guys for taking the time out to do that. Thank you to my Beta. _Gleecap in 20 words or less: Naya Rivera fucking owned it. Where the hell is her Emmy already? FedEx that shit a.s.a.p._ What are you guys' thoughts on the episode? Since this one is so short, I'll probably be doing a double update today. And if there are any Canucks fans in the audience keep that shit to youself. That is all. Happy Wednesday (but don't you kinda wish it was Tuesday already? Gah, this show. What does it do to us?)

**Author's Note #2: **Most of you can scroll past this, but the person who PM'ed me about whether or not these things would/could get angsty I will referrence two chapters (off the top of the dome, here) in the Spashley version that got rather angsty. One is the chapter entitled "A Soldier's Story", and the second is "A Walk To Remember". So, I _can_ go there, and probably will, but not quite yet. The show's angsty enough as is right now, lol.

* * *

><p>She'd better get a car for doing this.<p>

Her mother, for whatever reasons, had decided that she wanted another child, and while Santana was reluctant at first – sixteen years and counting of being the only child was a lot to give up – she'd gradually warmed up to the idea.

Especially when her best friend Noah Puckerman listed, in detail, the perks of being the older sibling.

She couldn't wait for her pint-size personal assistant.

But good things only come to those who wait and wait she had, for seven months now. And her mother had turned into some bloated creature that had a tendency to either spontaneously burst into tears or grunt in monosyllabic phrases.

With the most unnatural of urges. Which brings us to this moment, here, when Santana had been woken up in the dead of night – okay, it was only one in the morning – to go a get Gatorade, and not just any Gatorade, the grossest Gatorade. The yellow one.

Hence, she'd better get a car for doing this.

Technically, this wasn't supposed to be one of her duties. When a man knocks up a chick and sticks around, it's typically his job to go on odd runs like this.

But Santana's dad was in the military, on his third tour of Iraq, and so this responsibility fell on her petite shoulders.

Again, she'd better get a car for this.

***o*O*o***

"Thank you. Come again," the mini-mart attendant says, waving goodbye to the other customers crazy enough to be shopping after midnight.

"Santana, what are you doing here? It is not safe for you to be out," he says, in full protective mode.

"It's okay, Raul," she says, walking over to the beverage coolers. "Just getting some Gatorade for Mom."

"Okay, well come along," he gestures, already ringing the item up, waving emphatically for the bills. "Be safe now," he adds once the transaction is complete.

"I will," Santana smiles, rolling her eyes.

It's not like her house is that far away – couple of blocks maybe.

And they live in a pretty okay neighborhood – the most dangerous thing that'd happened in the last year was when Finn Hudson accidentally hit the mail man.

So there was no reason for her to be worried, right?

Right?

Wrong.

***o*O*o***

Shortcuts at night are no one's friend.

They're dark and empty and usually far away from where people can see or hear you.

A smart criminal lurks in the shadows of the shortcuts, biding his time and waiting for someone o stumble upon his path, an unsuspecting mark.

Most nights, he's not lucky enough to get one.

Some nights, though, he hits the jackpot.

***o*O*o***

"Hey!"

Santana jumps out of her skin at the unsuspecting noise, clutching the bottle of Gatorade tighter. Her head whips around, searching the darkness but finding no one there. It's black.

"Wh-who's there?" she manages, her heart thudding maniacally in her chest.

"Hey kid," the voice calls out again, and she watches as a man wearing a sling eases into the small amount of moonlight. He's closer than she anticipated and she steps back unwittingly. "Hey, can you help me? I dropped something over here and I can't pick it up with the bum arm," he says, smiling slyly and raising the injured arm.

Santana smirks. "Sure, I'll help. Just give me a couple thousand years, jerk-face. I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

"Smart girl," he grins, but the amusement in his smile is not typical. "How about you just turn out your pockets instead?"

Santana knows guns.

She knows them because her father is in the military and so was his father before him and his father before him.

And she's gone hunting and she's fired a few rounds in her short-time on this planet.

So she knows you can't outrun a bullet fired point-blank from a 9mm.

Hell if she's not going to try though.

***o*O*o***

He's on her in a flash, jumping onto her back like a cheetah pounces on its pray and they both hit the cold concrete with a loud thud, the Gatorade bottle cracking open and spilling its cool contents all over.

There's a small struggle as she tries to get him off of her but he's stronger, he's bigger, he's rougher, and he's more dangerous so all that happens is she flails about while he holds her down enough to steady the gun.

One shot – BANG! – and she's still.

***o*O*o***

The man looks stricken, his features pale and he nudges her a few times, testing.

Her body moves but she's doesn't and he panics, jumping off of her and running a hand through his hair.

There's blood now and it's oozing everywhere and the Gatorade is still there too, mixing with the viscous liquid and he's going to be sick maybe.

Maybe not.

Without thinking – you have to turn off your emotions – he reaches into her pockets, pulling out a ten, a five and a couple of singles.

All of this for seventeen bucks.

He shakes his head at her. "You should've just given it to me, kid."

There's a noise coming from the left, a flash of light accompanying it and he scurries to leave, letting Santana bleed out on the ground, unintentionally kicking her in his haste to leave.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's never out this late.

Never.

But it was her first real party and her parents had loosened the reins a bit, letting her enjoy pretending to be an adult.

At least for one night.

It was a pretty okay party, all things considered.

She danced like it was her job, and Mike Chang asked for her number so life was good if you asked the precocious blonde.

She probably wouldn't call _him_ but if his sister was around…

She's floating actually, euphoric, and completely inattentive.

Explains why she never sees the guy coming her way – at least not until he smacks right into her.

"Jesus, kid! Watch where you're going!" the man yells, but even as he's admonishing her he's gone, flying down the street like someone is chasing him.

Brittany rights herself and looks to where the man had come from, half expecting Jason Voorhees or Freddy Kruger to emerge from the shadows, but when she sees nothing she just shrugs and keeps on walking.

Ten steps later is when she first heard it.

It is low at first, barely discernable, but as she continues it grows louder and louder until all she can hear are the quiet moans.

And when she finally makes it to the source of the noise, she freezes in place.

***o*O*o***

Santana slowly comes to and the first thing she's aware of is that it is dark.

The second: her chest is on fire.

It feels like someone's taken a hot poker and jabbed it right into her heart and they're twisting it cruelly, mercilessly.

It hurts so bad that she can't even cry, can't make out words even.

She just lay there hoping that she'd either pass out again or die.

She knows she's been shot, knows it's bad, and she knows unless someone finds her soon she might die right here in this alleyway.

***o*O*o***

"Oh my God," Brittany whispers, rushing over to the prone body. "Don't move," she cautions, seeing the other girl turn her head. She whips out her cell phone, staring at the buttons and willing them to give her the answers. "What's the number, again?" she mumbles out, frustration bleeding into her voice.

Her jean-clad knees settle into the puddle of blood and she peers down at the other girl, checking to see if she is still breathing.

It's strange because even with the girl bloodied and in pain, the only thing she could think is how beautiful she is.

***o*O*o***

Santana tries to speak, she really does, but every time she opens her mouth she only manages a light rasp, her voice not working.

***o*O*o***

Brittany brings her head lower, her ear almost pressing against the other girl's lips. "9-1-1," she makes out, dialing the numbers instantaneously. "Thank you, now hush. Save your energy," she tells her, grabbing the girl's hand in comfort. "I'm gonna get you help."

***o*O*o***

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The first thing she wonders is why someone would change her alarm to such an annoying tone.

The second thing is whether or not she went to sleep with cotton in her mouth because it sure feels like it.

Santana opens her eyes and realizes that she isn't in her bed.

She isn't in her room.

She isn't at home.

So, where is she?

"Mom?" she questions, feeling a little more than scared.

There's some rustling to her right and she shifts toward the noise, her body protesting heavily at that as her head swims and her torso throbs in earnest.

"Santana," she hears her mother breathe out, her touch soothing on her head. "Oh, my baby. I am so glad you're awake."

"Mom, what happened?" she asks, her thoughts murky.

"You don't remember?" the woman questions, stroking her daughter's hair and Santana shakes her head once. "You were shot mija. On your way back from the convenience store."

Santana closes her eyes and tries to remember.

She remembers the Gatorade.

She remembers the man in the sling.

She remembers the gun.

And then she remembers…

"Someone found me," she says, not a question.

"Yes. Yes mija. And I am so glad she did," her mother says, her voice shaky. "She stayed. She's wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I want to see her," Santana croaks out, licking her dry lips.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's experiencing a lot of firsts lately.

And here's another one: visiting the person whose life you saved in the hospital.

How many people can say that?

"Hey," she says quietly, standing just inside the door.

Santana's mom stands, patting her daughter's head a few times. "I'll give you two some privacy," she whispers, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I love you, mija."

"Love you too, Mom," Santana rasps, her eyes following the woman to the door.

"Thank you," Santana's mom whispers with tears in her eyes, her hand grasping Brittany's arm tightly.

The blonde nods, not really knowing what to say and stands there awkwardly when it's just her and Santana in the room.

"You can come closer," the Latina manages, holding a hand up in invitation. "I won't bite."

Brittany manages a small smile and slowly walks over to the bedside, her eyes roaming over all the machinery and tubes attached to the other girl.

"What's your name?" Santana asks suddenly. "You saved my life and I don't even know your name."

"Brittany," the blonde says, wringing her hands together. "Are you…I mean…does it hurt?"

"Not too much. But I think that's 'cause of the drugs," Santana says, her eyes and lips smiling. "I remember you," she says, suddenly turning solemn. "I remember you holding my hand, telling me to squeeze it. I remember you telling me to stay with you. I don't know…I was ready to give up but you just…you brought me back, Brittany."

"I had to," Brittany tells her, looking into her eyes. "You couldn't die. You just…couldn't."

"Why?" Santana croaks, her brow furrowed slightly.

Brittany smiles, reaching up a hand to smooth out the wrinkles on the other girl's forehead. "I didn't get the chance to love you yet."


	9. Knockout

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:**I don't really do the whole dedication chapter thing because I think it's lame and sappy and those are two things I'm definitely not, right? ...*crickets* Okay, well, um, this one is dedicated to Dakadakara(read all of Spashley FFTs in one sitting. Just, wow), DatSonFan(my best homie), and my Beta(as necessary as my right hand and that's saying a _lot_).

If I pretend every day from now on is Monday, will that make Tuesday get here faster?

Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing. I'll try to keep on replying to reviews. Happy Thurs…I mean, Monday!

One last thing, taking into account the internationality of the readers of this story (and others) I would like to say thank you one more time: Thank you, Gracias, Merci, Salamat, Danke, Ka pai, Dank u, Obrigada, Grazie, Tak, Tack, Go raibh maith agaibh, Spasibo, Terima kasih, Dêkuji, Dekoju, Takk, Xie xie, Dakujem, Dziekuje, Shukran, Hvala, Toda, Mersi, Mulţumesc, Efcharisto, Dhanyawaad, Khawp khun, Asante, Paldies, Cám ơn, Köszönöm, and Arigato.

See you next week.

* * *

><p>Have you ever been punched in the face?<p>

No?

Well, I have.

And I don't mean it in that figurative, 'something catches you so off guard that it completely bowls you over' way.

I mean it in that 'someone cocks back their arm and rams their fist into your face so hard that you start seeing little Snoopys dancing around your head' way.

That happened to me and let me tell you, it hurts like a bitch.

In fact, the only thing that takes the sting out of the incident is that the person who hit me turned out to be the love of my life.

Sounds complicated, right?

***o*O*o***

"Mi'ja! Get up! I have to leave soon!"

You see that lump in the bed?

That's me.

And the guy yelling at the top of his lungs is my Dad.

The man literally only has two vocal settings: loud and louder.

"Santana!"

"I'm up!" My arm shoots up from the bed, waving enthusiastically. "I'm up!"

"Aye Dios mio, Santana," he says, and he's closer I can just tell. "This room is a mess. This has got to be the worst looking pigsty I have ever seen in my life."

Did I mention my father is also an expert on pigsties?

He does this every morning; it never fails.

Ever since my mom went to sleep for the last time…

And seeing as I'm, you know, _older_, it should be mildly inappropriate and borderline weird, but I know it comes from a place of love so it's all good.

The covers are pulled away from my face and I squint my eyes closed against the light, making him chuckle.

"You are always impossible to wake up in the mornings," he says affectionately, brushing some hair out of my face. "Just like your mother."

His mustache scratches against my forehead as he kisses it but I smile anyway, blinking my eyes open. "Have a good day at work."

"And you enjoy your day off," he echoes the sentiment, smiling warmly.

I try to keep my grin from getting too wide lest he suspect something because it's the first day of summer vacation, graduation is a week away and I have only a month or two before adulthood really and truly sinks its claws into my soul.

So I have only the best intentions for today.

Ones involving my best friend-

"And no Mike today," he calls out, pushing himself up off of my bed.

What?

_No!_

"_Dad_."

My twenty-two year old self is not above whining.

"I don't want him in the house when I'm not here, Santana. It's not appropriate."

I roll my eyes.

Dad's a little slow on the uptake sometimes.

He hasn't figured out that my six-year old craving for a pet monkey and my obsession with Tegan and Sara means anything yet.

But bless his heart for wanting to protect his little girl.

If he only knew.

I sigh.

"Fine. Dad. I won't let Mike in the house."

***o*O*o***

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, but why are we on the roof?"

That's Mike.

He's been my friend since before I could say the word and he's been like family for even longer than that.

My dad can't seem to wrap his mind around the fact that we're not actually _doing_ anything when we hang out because, you know, he's slow or whatever, but I don't even see Mike like that.

At all.

And the one time Mike thought he'd try something with me?

Let's just say things didn't go according to plan.

"_You try that shit again and you'll be short one egg roll, comprendes?"_

Mike was pretty cool with just staying friends after that.

"I told my Dad I wouldn't let you in the house today. He didn't say anything about being on it, though."

Mike snorts, shifting his shoulders a little.

His phone beeps.

"Gimme that," I grumble, ready to throw the thing away.

He's such a twitter whore.

He jerks away before I can grab it though, his eyes lighting up in that way that means we're about to get into some shit.

And that usually means…

"Lemme guess. Tina?"

He shoots me a look but nods anyway. "She says they're having some kick ass pre-graduation party on The Cove. You wanna go?"

Now, honestly, he had me at kick-ass but _he_ doesn't have to know that.

"I don't know Mike. I worked really hard this last semester and I really just wanted to chill out today."

Mike quirks an eyebrow. "And you're lying."

"Like a rug. Lead the way, hombre."

***o*O*o***

The place is packed.

The music is blasting and the liquor is flowing steadily, not showing any signs of stopping.

The Cove is really this club we've been coming to since, I don't know, forever.

Seriously.

We found out it existed when we were twelve and Mike's older brother Greg started working there.

And then Greg stole and totaled their parents' car and Mike was the only one with the balls to take the rap for it – Bobby and Peter were such loser older brothers and yes, his parents were somewhat obsessed with The Brady Bunch – which resulted in Mike getting grounded for _the longest two months of my life_, but also instant access to the Cove.

It was a fair trade.

Anyway, tonight, the Cove is truly on fiyah and there are plenty of _hot_ looking chicks here, most of whom I'm never seen before.

Have I mentioned how great I am with strangers?

Mike nudges my arm with his elbow. "Split for an hour and meet you at the bar?"

I shrug. "Okay, but if I don't show, I'm _busy_ so please don't barge into the women's bathroom looking for me."

"Hey, I did that one time."

"Yeah, and it took me forever to convince that chick that you weren't my crazy, possessive boyfriend."

"But didn't her crazy, obsessive boyfriend show up _right_ after that?"

"Not the point."

Mike laughs. "Bye Santana."

***o*O*o***

"So, you're only in town for how long exactly?"

She's saying stuff and I should listen but I don't really care.

Well, I mean, I _care_ but I'm not interested…in talking that is.

And as my fingers skip up her arm I'm pretty sure she's not exactly into _talking _either.

"You know…" I start, interrupting her and her green eyes twinkle as she looks into mine. "There's this room in the back. You and I could get, acquainted."

She bites her lip and that's a slow yes if there ever was one, but all of my hastily made plans are for naught because Mike's here now.

And he's had a _few_.

"San!"

He leans into me for a sloppy hug, nearly knocking me off of the bar stool I'm perched upon.

The girl I was talking to's smile turns into a grimace.

"Um…"

"Mike," I grunt, pushing him off me. "Can you stop slumping on me please, I'm in the middle of a conversation here."

Mike acts like he's only now just noticing the girl who'd been so close before that she was practically sitting in my lap.

Actually, he probably is.

He's _that_ wasted.

He grins slowly. "Well, _hey_."

"Hi," girlie says shortly, looking past him to me. "Are we done now or something?"

"No," I say, shaking my head and pushing at Mike again. "You…you stay there," I manage, finally getting him into a standing, well swaying, position. "I'll be right back."

I flash her a quick smile and shove Mike away a few steps before smacking him on the head…_hard._

"Dude. Stop being a cockblock."

Mike frowns. "But you don't have a cock."

I roll my eyes, grasping him tightly by the shoulders and looking directly into his dark – loopy – eyes. "Listen to me carefully, because I'm only going to say this once, okay? You know that girl I was just talking to. She's into me. Like a lot. Like so much that I'm probably gonna get to touch her boobs and stuff. And, while you may be too zonked out of your mind to notice, she's got a pretty decent rack. Now, what you need to do for all of this to happen, is go find Tina and leave me alone. Do you understand me?"

Mike nods. "No."

I groan, shaking his shoulders with each word. "Go. Find. Tina. And. Grab. Her. Ass."

I shake him one more time for good measure and break away, taking the step or two to make it back to the bar.

To my surprise, the girl is still there.

I would have dashed on my ass.

"So," I grin, rapidly invading her personal space and grinning lasciviously. "Where were we?"

She grins back, one of her hands winding itself into my hair, leaning forward so that her mouth is right next to my ear.. "I think you were mentioning something about a room," she whispers loudly, a devilish tongue tracing a tiny circle onto my earlobe.

Then I hear the most ear-shattering scream I've ever heard in my life.

And I groan again, not because the girl's screaming in my ear, but because I know exactly who that scream belongs to.

The girl backs away from me when Mike comes scrambling over, his eyes darting into the sea of people behind him nervously.

He clasps my shoulders. "Santana, you have to help me."

"What did you do?"

"I went to find Tina, like you said, and I thought I saw her, you know? So I did what you said and grabbed her ass, but…" he swallows. "…it wasn't Tina."

I pause for second and then burst out laughing.

"Are you for real?" I chuckle, getting up off the barstool. Guess I've already forgotten about hottie I was talking to. "Whose ass did you grab?"

My question is answered when the love of my life – correction, the pissed off love of my life – comes into view.

But, I'm not supposed to know that yet.

Girlie is smoking though – and not just because of the smoke blowing out of her ears.

She's tall, blonde, and she's got these legs that go on for days and how the hell Mike _ever_ got this woman confused with Tina will forever be a mystery to me.

But, again, I'm getting ahead of myself because, at the moment, sexy hottie looks like she wants to lay hands on Mike.

And not in the good way.

"_You_," she says, narrowing her eyes and Mike squeaks, trying to duck behind me.

Time to intervene.

"Now, hold on," I say, holding up a hand and stepping between them some more. "What's the problem here?"

"That wiry thing clinging to you assaulted me."

I play the dumb role, jerking a thumb back at Mike. "He did?"

"She's trying to _hit_ me," Mike whines pathetically, wrapping an arm around my neck.

"Because you grabbed my butt." The blonde fires back, her nostrils flaring.

It's _so _hot.

Mike shrugs. "It's a nice butt."

The girl lunges at us but I move Mike and me back, hissing at him. "Not _helping_, Mike."

"I'm just wondering what the big deal is. I could see if I like grabbed your butt and made an assessment – no pun – and was like, ew, this butt feels like cottage cheese. But, you know, it doesn't. It's actually nice and firm and really soft too," Mike explains himself like he's making it _better. _I'm looking back at him, begging him with my eyes to shut the _fuck_ up but he just grins, his eyes still on the girl. "Nice ass."

I probably would have seen it coming under any other circumstances but, even though I'm nowhere near the level Mike is at, I've still put away a few so my reaction time is pretty slow right now.

So all I manage to see before the most gorgeous girl in the world knocks me the fuck out is a set of perfectly manicured (short) nails.

Oh look.

It's Snoopy.

***o*O*o***

There's a hand on my face, just pressing insistently on one cheek, then the other.

It's nice.

"I'm so sorry," I hear a voice whisper, pretty close to my face. "I'm so, so sorry. Please wake up."

"Maybe you should slap her."

I'm up.

My eyes pop open just as blonde hottie has her hand cocked back to slap me and I sit up, startling her.

She had her eyes closed.

Wonder if that's why she hit me in the first place.

"Oh, gosh. You're awake," she breathes out, her whole body sagging with relief.

It's only then that I feel the throbbing on the side of my face and the nausea kicks in.

"Ow," I croak out, squinting my left eye back closed. It feels like half of my face has been injected with cement it's so heavy.

I slowly lie back down, closing my eyes.

Thankfully, we're not still at the bar but in the back somewhere, a storage room maybe.

"I was going to say," the girl mutters. "You probably shouldn't move."

"What happened?"

Out of my right eye I can see the girl biting her lip, looking away for a moment.

"What happened…" somebody else supplies. Somebody who sounds suspiciously like Mike with a swollen lip. "…is someone in this room is a kickboxing warrior princess. That's what happened."

He's sitting on a different sofa, Tina's arm wrapped around his shoulders and holding an ice pack to his lip.

She looks amused so I'm guessing she's heard the entire story.

"You deserved it," blonde girl says, turning her head in his direction momentarily.

"So why'd you hit me?" I ask her.

She turns back to look at me, and even in this crappy lighting I can see the bright color in her cheeks.

"I kind of closed my eyes when I threw the first punch."

Thought so.

I smirk. "Lame."

She flushes deeper, rolling her eyes. "Well, I'm a lover not a fighter."

Interest piqued.

Should I even go there?

"Is that so?" I drawl, leaving a lot to be implied, if she's the kind of girl that catches those implications.

She grins. "That's so."

Game. On.

"Are you kidding me with this?" Mike squeaks, gaping at us from across the room. "I can't even."

"Mike," Tina says.

"What?"

"Let's make out."

***o*O*o***

"I really didn't mean to hit you Santana."

_God_.

She just says my name so sexy.

All three syllables just ooze with sex appeal.

It's killing me.

We're still in the room but Mike and Tina are gone and she's 'tending to my wounds', which mostly just consists of her pressing a damp chicken wing (yes, a chicken wing. We're in a bar. There are no steaks) to my face and apologizing every other minute.

I probably shouldn't be as turned on as I am.

"It's okay, Brittany. I may be short and scrawny but I'm tougher than I look."

Yeah, her name is Brittany.

And while that name may forever be tainted by the human embodiment of a roller coaster Britney Spears, it works for her.

Which means it works for me.

"So, is that why you flopped like a sack of potatoes?" she teases, pushing a strand of hair behind me ear.

I laugh, poking her in the side.

She squirms poking me back and pretty soon we're wrapped up in an all-out tickle fight, chicken wing discarded and forgotten.

I wind up on top of her, my hands grasping her wrists and holding her hands above her head.

"All this activity probably isn't good for your head," she whispers, her eyes on my lips.

I swallow, watching her tongue dart out to moisten her own. "I don't know," I whisper back, hearing my heartbeat in my ears. "I think I'm starting to feel better."

"Well, I do know of one remedy," she says, her eyes darting up to my own and then back down. It's like she can't look away.

"What's that?"

She catches my eye and leans up, her lips just a breath away from mine. "I could kiss it better."

I'm not entirely sure who kisses who first but then again, I don't really care.

***o*O*o***

I'm a giver.

It's what I do.

But, sometimes I guess it's better to receive.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?

It's fucking awesome to receive.

Especially when you're receiving from Brittany.

I look down at her, weaving my fingers into her long locks and grasping gently.

She may not have an accurate right hook but she knows exactly what to do with her tongue.

My _God._

"Oh shit," I gasp, trying to find purchase on the concrete wall I'm pressed against but it's not working.

I'm basically only being supported by her face, but if she's not complaining I won't.

"Babe," I gasp when her tongue strokes against me long and hard. "You're way too good at that."

She hums against me, breathing through her nose and I'm just about gone.

Then her fingers find their way inside me, strokes hard and deep and possessive and I'm close to seeing Snoopy again.

"Jesus," I gasp, rocking forward and finally finding support by clutching her shoulders.

"It's Brittany," she mumbles, pulling away momentarily and I whine.

"Christo," I gasp again when her fingers curl inside me.

She laughs openly this time, the sound almost comical considering how muffled it is. "Pierce," she corrects me playfully again.

I don't care what her name is but if she keeps this up, pretty soon her last name will be Lopez.

First name: Mrs. Santana.

"Hey," she says, interrupting my thoughts once again.

"What?" I ask her, unscrewing my eyes to look at her, and widening them when she just stops moving altogether.

"Watch this," she says, finding a spot inside me and pressing so perfectly that I just fall to pieces.

What's my name again?

***o*O*o***

So that was our first time having sex and we just never…stopped.

Ever.

Like right now, so…

"Babe, who are you talking to?"

I look down at Brittany, my wife, the woman who stole my heart the exact same moment she knocked my block off.

I shift on top of her, my thigh pressing firmly against where she needs me most.

"No one," I whisper, leaning back down to kiss her deeply.

You guys can go now.

There's nothing to see here.


	10. Click

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I see what you did there Glee. What better way to generate buzz for an episode entitled "Rumours" than to drop a few sneak peeks and let the fandom create rumours of its own. Anyway, it's Tuesday, so yay! Here's an update. Not my best I don't think but, I'm trying guys. Thanks for reading and reviewing and everything else because it really makes doing this extra fun when you know that you're not just doing it for you and your friends. Plus, never realized how global Glee was. It's crazy. Have a good day/afternoon/night guys and thanks again. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>Finn's surprised to see her here so early, although, why the things his sister does still surprise him is not something he's sure of.<p>

"What's up, Britt?"

Brittany raises her camera and snaps an impromptu picture, bed head and all. _Click. _"I can't stop by unannounced to visit my favorite big bro'?" she smiles, brushing by him.

Finn smiles back, following her into the kitchen. "I'm your only big bro," he grins, grabbing an apple and biting into it. "And, when there's a newborn in the house, no. You can't stop by unannounced."

"You tell her Finn," a voice amusedly calls from the stairs. "We just got this little guy back to sleep."

Brittany snatches up her camera, snapping a few quick pictures – _Click. Click. Click – _before Rachel even makes it the few steps to the island. Then she's grabbing for her nephew, not even sparing a second glance at Rachel.

"Hey Brian," she whispers, nuzzling his little cheek, trying to get him to stir. He doesn't. "What did you guys drug him or something? Because I tried that with my cat and she didn't wake up for like a day."

Rachel settles in next to Finn, watching over Brittany and the baby. "He's just tuckered out from deciding to practice his Van Halen routine. All. Night. Long."

"Aww," Brittany mumbles, kissing his little eyelids. "He's a little rock star."

"So," Finn starts, sensing something's up with his sister. "Let's play the 'why the hell am I over Finn and Rachel's so early' game? Britt, you go first."

Brittany glares mildly at him. "You never let stuff go."

Finn just raises an eyebrow taking another bite of his apple.

"Fine," Brittany mutters, glancing back down to the sleeping bundle in her arms. "I kind of drew this really crappy assignment at work. Like, crappy, crappy. And I'm starting today and I'm anxious about it."

"What is it?" Rachel asks with concern.

"Survival stories."

Rachel blinks, sharing a look with Finn. "But, that doesn't sound like a bad thing Brittany."

"Mercedes and I drew the St. Margaret's Cancer Research center. We have to find a survival story there," Brittany says, the frown on her face evident.

Finn sighs, motioning for Rachel to give him and Brittany a moment.

"Come on, Brian," Rachel coos, taking the boy from Brittany. "Let's go put you down."

"Are you going to be okay doing this? I mean, you don't _have_ to you know?"

Brittany snaps a picture of a drop of water falling from their faucet. "I think I can. It's just…it's still so fresh, you know?"

Finn nods. "I know."

"I still think about him," she whispers, catching Finn's eye. "Every day."

"I do too," Finn says, moving to stand next to the blonde. "There probably won't be a day when we won't, you know? But, I'm not so sure that's a bad thing."

Brittany's lips quivers and the tears she'd been holding back finally fall as she presses her face into Finn's shoulder. "I miss him, Finn. So much."

"Me too."

***o*O*o***

"You're quiet."

It's funny that Mercedes says this for two reasons:

First, she's always quiet compared to Mercedes. Most times before they go out on assignments, Mercedes is going a mile a minute and Brittany feels like the Silent Bob to her Jay.

And second, she's also got a face full of donut.

"I can't talk and chew Mercedes," she mumbles out, covering her full mouth.

Mercedes grins, taking a left turn. "Well, I don't mean just _now_. I mean all morning. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Brittany maintains, finally swallowing the donut down. "I've just been thinking about my dad a lot."

"I figured that was what was going on?" Mercedes says softly, pulling into a parking space outside the center. "You know, if you want, you could transfer to another assignment. I think Mike drew the skateboarding bulldog and I know you like working with him."

Brittany smiles, rolling her eyes slightly at the little nudge Mercedes gives her. If only she knew. "No. It'll be therapeutic," she says, her eyes staring up at the large building, through the camera lens. "At least, that's what Rachel says."

Mercedes pulls the keys out of the ignition. "It's your call, B. But, if it gets to be too much, just let me know."

"Okay."

_Click._

***o*O*o***

She didn't think this guy was really a doctor.

No freaking way.

First of all, doctors were old…er.

The guy was her age – give or take a couple of years.

Second, he smelled like Axe body spray

And third…he had a mohawk.

Yep, that's right.

A freaking mohawk.

_Click. Click._

"Hold on," he says, turning in the opposite direction. "This is my good side."

Brittany snaps another series of pictures – _Click. Click. Click._ –trying to ignore the leer in her direction.

"It kind of sucks that we have to put ourselves out here like this," he says, signing off on some order at the nurses' station. "But, we need the funding, and, believe it or not, a little tug on the heart strings goes a long way."

"Well, we're grateful that you've allowed us into your facility, so thank you Dr. Puckerman," Mercedes says, reading the name off the man's lab coat.

He grins. "Just call me Puck," he informs her with a wink.

Brittany stifles a giggle.

"Okay…Dr. Puck," the reporter says, avoiding looking in Brittany's direction. "How about we go ahead and get a move on, yes?"

"Yeah. Sure," the man says, straightening up again. "I'll show you around."

***o*O*o***

"Now, most of the patients on this floor are in remission. You know, just here for treatment therapy and what have you. They've all signed waivers to participate in the article although some might be more forthcoming than others," Dr. Puck explains, moving along the hallway.

Brittany peeks into a room when a little girl is sitting; her legs folded neatly on the bed as she watches cartoons with a man who looks like her clone copy.

The little girl catches her eye and waves.

_Click. Click. Click._

"Dr. Puck."

For the first time since they've gotten here, the good doctor loses some of his unwavering swag. "Nurse Quinn."

Brittany glances at the woman standing in front of them all now, a clipboard in her hands. "There's a Mr. Karofsky here to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Oh, yes. Right." Dr. Puck tugs on his tie, turning to Mercedes and Brittany. "Mr. Karofsky's one of our most consistent contributors. You might want to get a word with him."

"Sure thing," Mercedes nods, looking to Brittany. "You coming Britt?"

"You go ahead," Brittany grins, waving her on. "I'll catch up."

***o*O*o***

Brittany peeks into another room, quiet and darkened though it is, and jumps through the ceiling when the voice sounds behind her.

"I wouldn't go in there just yet if I were you."

Brittany accidentally gets a picture of the linoleum floor, her hand clutching her chest as she turns to face the male nurse.

"Kurt Hummel," he says, giving her a little smile.

Brittany breathes out a deep breath. "You scared me."

"I can see that," the man grins kindly. "Brittany, yes?"

She nods.

"I like you," he says, holding out his elbow for her to hold. "Let's make the rounds, okay? I'll introduce you to everyone. We'll save Santana for last though," he says, nodding into the room. "She gets extra cranky after her treatments."

***o*O*o***

_Click. Click. Click._

"Have you been doing this long?"

Brittany takes one more picture of them before pulling her camera down. "All my life."

Kurt – the fabulous Kurt she should say – took her all around the ward, introducing her to the patients and hospital staff alike.

Telling her about the ins and outs and giving a brief history on the people who pretty much lived here.

Now she was in Rebecca's room, the little girl she'd taken a snapshot of earlier.

And the girl's father – bless his heart – was trying mercilessly to flirt with her.

He was single so it was cool and all, but poor guy.

Totally barking up the wrong tree.

"That's cool. I've always been really interested in the arts," he says, tickling Becca's bare toes, smiling when the little girl squeals happily.

Brittany sighs, pulling the camera away.

"There's really no easy way to say this," she starts, deciding to just come on out with it already. "I'm gay. Like, really gay. Like 'Ellen DeGeneres ain't got nothin' on me' gay. And, while I appreciate it, nothing's going to happen here, okay?"

The man blanches. "Okay."

"Cool," Brittany grins, holding her camera back up. "Say cheese."

***o*O*o***

Brittany tentatively knocks on the open door.

The woman lying prone on the bed looks over at her. "Can I help you?"

"Um…" Brittany starts and then realizes she doesn't know quite what to say.

All of the other patients have been rather welcoming and forthcoming, not needing an explanation for her presence.

Not this one.

She holds up the camera.

"Oh," the woman says, sitting up slowly. "You're with the paper?"

Brittany nods, moving forward a little bit.

The woman grins, sitting up all the way now. "You can come over here. I won't bite."

Brittany shuffles all the way over, trying not to stare, but then again, not being able to help herself.

The woman that lay before her was absolutely gorgeous.

And even that assessment was not doing her justice.

Was this woman really sick?

She settles into the chair right next to the bed, already holding her camera up, her mind's eye already finding its subject.

"We can talk, okay?" the woman says, placing her hand over the lens suddenly. "But, I don't want pictures."

She looks so strange asking, so anxious, that Brittany just nods, not wanting to aggravate her. "Okay."

"Good," the woman smiles, dropping her hand at the same time Brittany lowers the camera. "So, go ahead. Ask me stuff."

Brittany smiles, matching the grin against her will seemingly. "Well, I um…I don't usually ask the questions."

"But, you can right?"

She looks so hopeful that Brittany nods again, without really intending to, blinking when a notebook and pen are thrust into her hands.

"Okay, well, go ahead," the woman grins, turning in the bed to face her full-on. "Ask me anything."

Brittany readies her pen. "What's your name?"

***o*O*o***

Santana Lopez is a badass.

Or, at least, that's Brittany's impression.

It's been weeks since that first interview and Santana's treatments are still flourishing and Mercedes is up to her elbows in notes and inspirational stories and all of the stuff that would make their report a success.

But all Brittany can really think of each and every time their assignment is brought up is how kickass Santana is at UNO.

And also, how freaking cute Santana is, but, that's neither here nor there.

"Uno and out," Santana says, placing the wild card down on the top of the deck.

Brittany throws her hand down. "No fair," she grumbles, crossing her arms. "I swear you're cheating."

Santana chuckles, grabbing the deck and shuffling the cards. "I swear I'm not. You're just easy to read," she teases, sticking out her tongue.

Brittany playfully sticks hers out too and they chuckle at one another; Brittany nervously playing with her camera, Santana shyly looking down at her lap.

The laughter tapers off and Brittany snaps a picture of her sneakers.

_Click._

"Um…" Santana starts, her fingers picking invisible pieces of lint off of her jeans. "…Guess what?"

Brittany looks up at her. "What?"

"I'm finishing up treatments this week."

Brittany feels her stomach hollow out like it did that time Finn tricked her into going on Splash Mountain with him when they were little.

She got the last laugh though, and Finn never got on another ride with her after she flailed back in fear so hard that she knocked both of his permanent front teeth out.

"That's great, San."

Santana smiles, her index finger tracing a little pattern on her knee. "Yeah. So, I probably won't be seeing much of you anymore."

Brittany's already forced smile wavers slightly, her fingers trembling slightly as they clutch her camera. "Oh."

Santana's smile turns into something warmer. It's a little less friendly and a lot more something else but Brittany can't quite put her finger on what it is. "Unless," Santana starts, taking in a shaky breath. "Unless, that is, you still want to see me."

Brittany's eyes widen comically and she swallows audibly, shaking her head to clear the fog.

Wrong move.

Santana shifts and is shaking her own head now, closing her eyes tightly. "Of course," she whispers, her throat tight. "I mean, why would you? You're gorgeous and I'm-"

"Santana," Brittany interrupts. "You're…God, you're so beautiful."

She watches as the other woman gapes at her, her brown eyes widening as Brittany moves closer, her hands shaking harder as they reach up to pull away the scarf Santana always keeps wrapped around her head.

In seconds the scarf is undone and Santana looks away, noticeably shaking as Brittany finally looks at her for the first time, taking in her shorn hair. "So, so…beautiful," Brittany whispers, pulling back to look at her.

Brittany can almost feel the other woman's vulnerability and raises the camera – her camera – nodding to it slightly. "Let me," she says, so quietly that she's sure Santana sees it rather than hears it.

Brown eyes glisten with unshed tears as her head moves up and down once, a slow nod.

Brittany wastes no time, filling her camera's memory up with shot after shot of the most beautiful thing she's ever had the privilege of capturing in her focus box.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

***o*O*o***

Years later, when she's in her home, waiting for Santana to come back from work, or from the grocery store, or from anywhere she'll pull out her old portfolio.

Pictures of everything and everyone she's captured over her career.

Except for...

They never used Santana's shots for the article.

Those are hanging on her studio wall, to serve as a constant reminder for why she does what she does.

Sometimes a picture is worth a million words.

And then sometimes you only need one:

Beautiful.


	11. Bus Stop

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **_Glee_ has got to be the most emotionally exhausting show I've ever been into. And you know, I watch all those real life cop shows like _Cold Case Files_ and the _First 48_ so that's saying something. I am just so wiped after every single episode these days. Some things, Brittana is on (so on they're off) and, I am a Brittana fan – this much must be evident by now – and I heart those girls so damn much, but _lately_ Quinn Fabray has been working her way under my skin. In a good way. She was so freaking awesome last night. I think it has more to do with Dianna Agron's voice though to be honest. When it's not all breathy and stuff it's kind of hot. Moving on because this is the wrong place to vocalize these sentiments. Also, can I just say that this show (in spite of how emotionally invested I am) never makes me cry - Brittany almost did when Artie called her stupid, though - but that "It Gets Better Project" commercial had me bawling.

**Author's Note #2: **Thanks for the kind reviews for yesterday's update. I was anxious about that chapter for some reason. Hell, I'm always anxious about the chapters. What did you guys think about the episode? I'm interested. Anyway, thanks for reading/reviewing and have a great day/afternoon/night! Everyone who reviews who doesn't have a pen name/ user name that I can reply to, do know that I do read your reviews and am remarkably grateful.

* * *

><p>The bus is running late.<p>

And if she doesn't make it home in time to catch _America's Next Top Model _finale, Tina can pretty much count on baby-sitting the boss' nephew alone.

It isn't even her fault she's on the bus.

Her stupid ex-boyfriend Puck, decided he was going to be chivalrous for once in his goddamn life and made it his goal to make sure her car was running properly – especially since she ended up stranded on a not so savory part of town.

Good thing she's from Lima Heights.

Anyway, for all of his "good intentions", Puck ended up totaling her car in route to the mechanic.

And, it's not what you think either. Puck's fine. He wasn't even in the car.

She's grateful for that (she's not a complete bitch) but then she's also kinda not because that jockstrap left her car in the middle of the street for a...wait for it...slushie craving.

What she ever saw in that dude, she doesn't even know.

Oh well.

It'll take another week or two until her car's fixed and since she has crappy insurance (or maybe her standards are too high) – they wanted her to drive an Accord.

An _Accord_.

Who the hell did they think she was? Carol Brady or something.

You see, Santana's going places. Big places. And she ain't getting there in no Honda Accord.

Still, the bus venture isn't doing her any favors.

Sure, guys are driving by and honking their horns at her – because, duh – but she's not going after some idiot whose idea of the perfect come on involves laying on the horn and drooling out of a car window.

No dogs allowed.

Santana's vaguely aware of someone else entering the bus shelter, but only vaguely.

She's too wrapped up in her thoughts.

Peering down the street again, she sees car after car but no bus in sight and sighs heavily, sitting back.

Her cell phone buzzes and she chuckles slightly. Tina got caught by their boss trying to leave early.

She's not anymore.

"What's funny?"

Santana's head swivels around.

"What?"

There's a woman sitting there on the bench, smiling far too kindly for someone speaking to a perfect stranger.

Santana scowls.

"You're laughing," the woman says, undeterred. "When something's funny, people laugh."

Yeah, Santana thinks. What a brilliant assessment. But the woman looks earnest and not sarcastic so she keeps those words to herself.

"Just a text," she answers, waving her phone in the air. "From a friend."

"Oh," she says, still smiling, and Santana just nods politely and goes back to looking at her phone.

It doesn't take her too long to notice this time.

"Okay, what now?" she huffs, turning toward the woman again.

The smile is a little disconcerting.

"Well..." The woman prompts, looking expectantly at the Latina.

"Well...what?"

"What did your friend say?"

Santana stares at her blankly. "How is that any of your business?"

The blonde actually mulls the question over and the sole part of Santana that's not focused on how annoyed she is by this whole incident notes that the woman has stunningly beautiful blue eyes.

"I guess technically it's not but my mom tells me it's rude to laugh in someone's company and not share the joke."

Santana blinks, a little disbelieving laugh slipping out unwittingly. "Are you kidding me?"

The woman shakes her head, again taking Santana's words at face value. "No."

It's somewhat amazing to her that she even indulges in this conversation, but she's bored and annoyed and it's not like she's going anywhere else anytime soon.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this, but basically my friend called me a bitch for leaving her hanging at work." She chuckles a little, remembering Tina's wide-eyed look when she ducked into the elevator just before Ms. Sylvester came out of her office.

When she catches the blonde's eye again, however, there's a frown stretched across the woman's face. "Well that's not very nice."

Santana's confusion is apparent. "Huh?"

"Why would she call you a bitch? Are you a bitch?"

"What? No."

"Then why would she call you one?"

"She was just kidding," Santana explains, not believing that she even _has _to. "You know, joking."

"I don't think it's very funny," the woman continues. "I don't think you're a bitch at all. I think you're nice and hot. And, even though you're pretty when you frown, I bet you'd be even prettier if you smiled," she continues on to say, smiling brightly when she's finished.

Santana is at a loss for what to say because, honestly, what can she say to that. It doesn't stop the corners of her mouth from turning up though.

"See?" The woman beams now, glad to have elicited a smile from the Latina.

Santana's cheeks warm up and it's a little bothersome, because why is she blushing? It's just a compliment and she gets ones _way _more enticing than that on a daily basis.

But she _is _blushing and anxiously tapping her foot and now she has her phone in her hand, opening and closing the main menu in another one of her nervous habits and why is this even happening?

"Thanks," she mutters, finding something interesting to look at (like the concrete) because her nervousness only amplifies when she looks at the woman sitting next to her.

"I'm Brittany."

There's a hand in her line of sight, hovering midair and poised above her own. She supposes she's supposed to shake it, but there's this sensation in her gut that feels suspiciously like butterflies and, honestly, what is going on here? When did Santana turn into someone with as much social confidence and prowess as Edward Scissorhands?

She grasps the blonde's hand, shaking it twice, firmly, before letting go. There. That's more like it. "I'm Santana," she says meeting the blonde's – Brittany's – gaze.

"It's nice to meet you Santana," she says, big grin stretched across her face.

There goes that feeling in her stomach again and Santana's never felt this...thing. It's like the things she's read about, seen in movies even. But it's never _happened _to her.

It's happening now though, and with a woman no less, and – oh shit – Santana hadn't even thought to go there yet.

The look on the Brittany's face changes and Santana actually finds herself thinking how adorable it is that the other woman seemingly only feels one emotion at a time.

Like Tinkerbell.

The blonde looks shy but if there's one thing Santana's noticed it's that this woman is in serious need of a verbal filter. "Do you think I'm pretty, Santana?"

Santana's heart does this weird pitter patter flip thing and she feels her face heat up because 1) oh my God, yes, Brittany is gorgeous and b) this conversation is headed where she thinks it's headed.

It almost freaks her out because no, she's not a lesbian or bisexual or bicurious or whatever. In fact, up until this exact moment, she'd never even considered the attractiveness of another woman beyond the 'she looks nice' standby. But as she looks at Brittany, really looks at her, her gaze lingering on her eyes, and her lips, and her boobs (hello), she thinks that maybe she's not a straight as she thought she was.

"I think you're very pretty, Brittany," she admits, trying to appear casual.

The blonde beams again. "Good."

***o*O*o***

"Wait, wait, wait. What?"

Santana really doesn't want to say it again.

"C'mon Tina. You heard me," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Of course I _heard_ you. I'm just not sure if _you _heard you."

"I know, I know," Santana says, holding onto her pillow cushion. "It's all kinds of crazy because she's a perfect stranger and kind of ditzy - in a good way though - and we kind of have nothing in common. Like, she actually likes black jelly beans."

"Uh huh," Tina nods. "And like, how she likes girls and you, um, don't."

"T-"

"Don't T me," Tina starts, waving a finger at her. "Do not _T _me."

"Okay, but you can't freak out. I'm already out of my head about this so I really need you to do your job and be the more level-headed one of us here. Because I don't know what I'm doing or even _why _I'm doing it, but she was just so nice and kind and she's so freaking beautiful it just blew my mind; and before I knew it I was saying yes to a dinner date, and oh my God what am I going to wear? What's appropriate to wear? What if we wear the same thing? Who pays? Is she going to try to kiss me? Oh my God, what if she tries to kiss me?"

"Calm down, loca," Tina says, grasping her friend gently by the shoulders. "It's going to be fine. We're going to pick you out something to wear and you're going to go out, relax and have a good time."

Santana breathes a giant sigh of relief. "Thanks Tina."

"No problem," Tina shrugs, pulling back to go into Santana's bedroom. "And when it's over you can tell me all about the hot girl-on-girl sex."

Santana groans over the other woman's laughter.

***o*O*o***

"I have a confession to make."

Brittany stops chewing her salad and looks up at Santana expectantly, and Santana clutches the table in an attempt not to swoon.

"I've never done anything like this before," she says, gesturing vaguely between them.

Brittany's brow furrows. "You've never had Italian?"

Santana shakes her head. "No, not that."

Brittany thinks again. "You've never eaten...dinner?"

Santana smiles, she can't help it. "Brittany," she murmurs, finding herself suddenly feeling at ease. "I've never dated a woman before."

"Oh," Brittany says, putting her fork down while thinking of something else to say. "It's not that different from dating a guy, I don't think," she explains and Santana's lips quirk up again.

"I'm starting to see that," she says, picking up her glass of wine and taking a sip.

"And the sex isn't really all that different either. It's still wet and hot, although you use your hands a lot more."

Santana almost chokes one her wine. "Brittany."

Brittany grins. "It's better too. At least, I think it is. The best."

Santana is probably blushing to the tips of her ears and she sputters helplessly as Brittany continues to expound, in detail, the joys of lesbian sex.

"...like six orgasms in one night," Brittany finishes, oblivious to the couples around them staring. "I think us having sex would be pretty hot."

Santana's jaw drops. "You are unreal," she says, shaking her head slowly. "Did you know that?"

"No. I thought I was real."

***o*O*o*  
><strong>

"I had a really good time, Santana. Like, really, really good."

They're at the bottom of Santana's apartment complex; Brittany was actually chivalrous enough to walk her to her door. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had done that without the intention of going up with her.

"Me too, Brittany," she said, smiling warmly and leaning casually on the door jamb.

"Awesome," Brittany grins, thrusting a fist into the air. On anybody else Santana might roll her eyes; actually, it's no question really, she'd totes write them off as a loser. On Brittany, though, Santana just smiles wider and wonders idly if Brittany could get any more adorable.

"So..." Brittany says, trailing off and meeting Santana's gaze.

"So..." Santana echoes.

Brittany steps forward, closing some of the distance between them and threading her fingers through Santana's. "Was I a good first date?" She asks coyly, a lone eyebrow rising in the streetlight.

Santana grins. "The best."

"So can I do it?"

And it should throw Santana off, the question that is, because for most of the time they've spoken, Santana and Brittany haven't even been on the same chapter, never mind the same page. But this time, Santana knows exactly what she means.

She nods and Brittany's face immediately draws nearer, closer and closer until she's right there and Santana's eyes slide shut, completely caught up in the feeling of it.

Later, when Brittany's crawling up her body, gentle kisses ghosting over her quivering stomach and heaving chest until the blonde is hovering right over her, smiling down at her, she attempts to remember how to breathe.

"See, Santana. It's better, right?"

Santana smiles as much as she can while still trying to suck air into her lungs. "The best."


	12. Speechless

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **I am so tired. I don't even know what I'm typing right now. Glee was/is still good. Although, just thought, all these Brittana issues would be null and void if Britt would stay out of the damn hallway. Gah. She's like, forever in her locker. Um, sorry, that was me being weird. Back to this. Here's one that probably goes along with the cancer one in terms of subject matter. I don't know what kind of mood I was in last week. Working on Life and Other Concepts right now. Actually, the chapter is done I just have to type because I was feeling nostaligic and decided to actually write in my notebook, you know, with a _pen._ Yeah, nostaligia is overrated. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

* * *

><p>It was weird to have had a stroke so young.<p>

A medical anomaly they'd all say, though not unheard of.

In fact, a vast number of stroke cases – twenty percent, she now knew – occur in people under the age of forty-five.

Still, Brittany S. Pierce didn't ever think she'd be one of them.

***o*O*o***

The party the night before was insane and Brittany, still smarting from the copious amounts of liquor she had consumed, contemplates the appropriate amount of Tylenol she should take as she checks her voice mailbox.

"_Britt, it's Quinn. I'm just making sure you got in alright. You were pretty out of it last night. Call me, okay?"_

"_Hey Brittany. I'll be over tomorrow afternoon to go shopping. The fall collection just dropped and I'm all over that like a fat camp survivor on a cheeseburger. Mmm. Now I'm hungry. Anyway, see you later."_

"_Brittany, this is your mother speaking. Please don't send catnip through the mail again. Charity attacked the mail carrier."_

The girl stretched and rolled over, a dull ache right between her eyebrows.

She doesn't think too much of it though, and even when she drops her toothbrush on the second and third attempts she doesn't worry.

But when she finally gets a long look in the mirror she starts freaking out.

The entire left side of her face is drooping and in spite of her concerted efforts to contort her face the right way, it remains unmoving.

Her movements are uncoordinated as she makes it back to her bed, to her phone.

Trying to remember the numbers to dial though is proving to be a difficult task.

She can't remember her mom's.

Or Quinn's.

Or Kurt's.

And it's not that she's forgotten them, or forgotten what numbers are, it's just the sequence is getting turned around in her head and they're not making sense.

Nothing is.

Fate is on her side though and the phone rings out shrilly, Ke$ha's 'TikTok' literally and figuratively music to her ears.

She presses the green button and puts the phone to her ear and…

Nothing.

She can't speak.

"_Britt?"_

She opens her mouth with intent, willing the words to come out but all she can manage are garbled sounds equivalent to what a blender on its last leg might sound like.

She's beyond scared.

"_Britt, are you okay?"_ Quinn asks her, worry creeping just on the edge of her voice.

She tries to yell but it comes out like a grunt and the tears spring to her eyes, frustration boiling over.

"_Hey, Britt. Say something!"_

She tries to, again. But there's like this disconnect between what she wants to say and what she's able to because she splutters helplessly again before falling to the floor with a whimper.

"_That's it. I'm coming over,"_ Quinn says, and Brittany can hear the girl moving around. She closes her eyes. _"Stay on the line, okay? I'm coming over."_

Brittany just lies on the floor, pressing the phone to her ear as the throbbing in her head grows more intense, and her breaths successive and rapid.

"_I'm coming over, Britt."_

***o*O*o***

She doesn't remember getting here.

She doesn't remember Quinn and Rachel finding her on her bedroom floor.

She doesn't remember the frantic drive to the hospital.

She doesn't remember her mom, or her little sister, or even Kurt.

And that's saying something, because no one forgets Kurt.

She doesn't remember any of it.

And yet, it all happened.

She knows because they're all here, standing around her room and looking at her like they're afraid she might…

We won't go there.

***o*O*o***

The doctors say it was a relatively small one.

And the cause, unknown as it is, could only be traced back to a carotid artery dissection.

So, she can take comfort in the fact that the effects won't be long-lasting and she should be fully recovered in a year.

A year.

Like that's a good thing.

"Brittany, do you understand what I'm saying?"

Her mother's sitting with her, next to her in a chair, and Doctor Schuester is across from them, explaining all the therapies she'll need to undergo to get back to normal.

She wants to slap him.

Well, maybe not him, but this entire incident needs to go fuck itself.

And she'd totally say that if she could, but for now she just squeezes her mom's hand once, signaling to her that she understood.

That she understands.

Life is going to be hell for a while.

***o*O*o***

And hell it was.

The physical aspects of it were pure torture.

Granted she wasn't learning how to walk again but moving, a once seamless task that she'd – as a dancer – perfected with the grace of a swan, was now a test in endurance.

Namely, figuring out how long Brittany could endure Dr. Cohen-Chang's eternal optimism.

Her friends made it better, going to every appointment and session with her.

Kurt would hit on Noah Puckerman, her strengthening therapist, until the guy would become so flustered that he'd just let Kurt and her look at magazines for the rest of the session, as long as she turned the pages.

And Rachel and Quinn made every session with Finn better, bringing in music and joking that even with limited control of her limbs she still danced circles around him.

But the brightest spot of all was in her speech sessions.

Santana Lopez was fresh out of school, fresh out of training, and an incredibly talented speech therapist.

At least in Brittany's opinion.

She's funny and pretty and she has a gorgeous smile and those are perfectly good motivators in Brittany's book.

The first time she met her, she's speechless.

And, yeah, she couldn't really speak if she tried, but still, she didn't think she'd be able to if she could.

***o*O*o***

Brittany looks at the card placed down in front of her before looking up, eyebrow raised.

Santana smiles. "I just want you to try."

Brittany looks back down at the card.

The word on it looks familiar but she can't place it and she doesn't want to sound stupid – not in front of Santana – so she just shakes her head.

Santana sighs and scoots a little closer.

"Remember. We have to break it up. There are three parts." She covers the last four letters up with one hand. "Say that," she nods at the paper.

Brittany looks down and furrows her brow, stuttering out the "Ch" sound.

"Very good," Santana beams, placing both hands over the card now. "Now this."

Brittany remembers the rule about these letters easily. "Eeeee," she drags out longer than necessary, but her enthusiasm is not for naught.

"That's great Britt. Now one more," she says quietly, revealing only the last two letters.

Brittany stares hard but she's drawing a blank and her face communicates that sentiment loud and clear.

"When the 'E' is on the end by itself it's silent," Santana softly reminds her. "So what sound do we have now?"

"Esss," Brittany says/asks and breathes out a sigh of relief when Santana's nod confirms it.

The therapist removes her hands, showing Brittany the full word again. "Now what does that say?"

Brittany studies the word, taking her time. "Ch….eee…esss. Cha…eee…sss…. cheese? Cheese," Brittany finally says, looking up and surprised to find herself looking into her own reflection, her smiling face staring right back at her.

She hasn't been able to smile for months.

Santana's smiling face pops out from behind the hand mirror. "Hey, Brittany?" she grins, and a single tear rolls down Brittany's cheek. "Say cheese."

***o*O*o***

A few months later and it's still hard to talk.

She just gets her words jumbled up from time to time.

She supposes it's okay though because it makes for a much more interesting basketball game when the smack-talk borders on ridiculous.

"Garbage Finn, you so are," she yells, stealing the ball from him again.

They're in the gym, her therapy sessions with him having turned into adult recesses ages ago.

And because she suspects Finn has a crush on Quinn (and because of her kickass medical coverage), they keep on having them in spite of her relatively remarkable recovery.

"Yeah, Hudson. I guess white men really can't jump," Quinn teases, bestowing him with a smile so brilliant and a rambunctious pat on the ass that he forgets he's supposed to be guarding Brittany and the taller blonde just goes by him, laying the ball off the backboard and in the rim with ease.

"That was so unfair," Fin breathes, hands on his hips. "It's already two-against-one and then you guys play dirty, too?" He shakes his head. "Maybe I should get Santana over here to help me out!" he yells, nodding to the corner of the gym.

Santana's sitting there, a folder on her knees and a grin on her face.

Brittany's head snaps up and she flushes brilliantly, not having noticed the other woman there. She wracks her brain trying to remember if she'd said anything particularly stupid during the game.

She hates messing up in front of Santana.

"That's okay, Finn," Santana calls back, her eyes finding Brittany's. "You guys look like you're doing just fine without me."

Brittany looks over to Quinn, her eyes questioning. "Right back?" she asks and Quinn nods, playfully shoving Finn when he tries to take the basketball away from her.

Santana folds her hands over her lap when Brittany jogs up to her, peering up prettily into Brittany's flushed face.

"Hi," Brittany says.

"Hey," Santana grins, her shoulders relaxing. "What's up?"

Brittany bites her lip. "I…" She has something to ask and it's important and she doesn't want to mess it up. Maybe she should keep it short.

"Question."

Santana nods. "Okay."

It's getting hard to speak again, although, this time, it might not be just because of the stroke. "Having party. Last day therapy physical," she manages, her cheeks growing red with the mental exertion and because of what she's asking. "Come?" she finishes, looking down at the tops of their shoes.

Santana's foot shifts to nudge hers and she looks up again, her eyes meeting glittering brown ones. "Thank you for asking Brittany. I would love to come to your party."

***o*O*o***

They have it at the center because it makes sense to.

Brittany invites her 'friends' friends (Quinn, Rachel, Mike, Kurt and Mercedes) because she _has_ to and her 'other' friends (Puck, Finn, and Tina) because they work there, but Santana was the only one to get a verbal invite from Brittany and that's why Rachel's giving her a lecture right now.

"She's your therapist Brittany," Rachel informs her, like she doesn't already know. "Your speech therapist and pretty soon you'll be speaking fine again and she'll be moving on to someone else who needs her services."

"Rachel," Quinn hisses, watching the hurt flash across Brittany's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Quinn, but playing into this little fantasy is only going to cause more heartbreak in the long run," the short brunette says shortly. "She needs to recognize that there's a line there."

Mike's across the room talking to Santana and as Brittany watches them, unable to look elsewhere really, her therapist catches her eye, winking quickly before turning her attention back to Mike.

Brittany blinks.

And then shakes her head.

Did that really just happen?

She concludes that it must have because Santana's looking at her again, hiding her smile in a glass of juice.

Brittany decides Rachel doesn't know what she's talking about.

***o*O*o***

"_David Posman, 33, was arrested recently in Providence, R.I, after allegedly knocking out an armored car driver and stealing the closest four bags of money. It turned out they contained $800 in PENNIES, weighed 30 pounds each, and slowed him to a stagger during his getaway so that police officers easily jumped him from behind." _

Brittany puts the newspaper down, smiling brightly as Santana giggles away across from her.

"Que idiota," the woman says, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry, Brittany. That was too funny. Go ahead. Read another."

Brittany looks nervous. "Can we not?"

Santana sobers up, her laughter tapering off. "What did you want to do?" she asks, tilting her head.

"I…" Brittany starts, and then swallows, her hands shaking slightly. But it's purely the nerves this time. She knows exactly what she wants to say. "I wrote something. For you."

If Santana is surprised or taken aback she doesn't show it, and she doesn't say anything, just sits back slightly, silently urging Brittany to go ahead.

Brittany reaches into her sweatshirt and pulls out a haggard looking scrap of paper and carefully unfolds it, her writing – which has slowly but surely become more legible to others – standing out on the page.

She clears her throat.

"Santana," she starts, her voice wavering a bit. "There are a lot of things I want to thank you for. You taught me to read and write again. How to speak, how to smile. You made me feel like a person again," she reads, taking calming breaths so that she doesn't confuse or jumble up her words. It's still a chore. "And I know you were only doing your job but, part of me is hoping that it wasn't only just doing your job. Part of me hopes that when you took my hand when I was frustrated and upset and kept mixing up my 'B' sounds and my 'D' sounds it wasn't just because you were supposed to, it was because you wanted to. And part of me wants to believe that, when we first started writing exercises and you wrote 'Brittany is pretty', it wasn't just you doing your job but that you actually believed it. And part of me hopes that even when we're done here, and I don't need sessions anymore, that you'll still see me and we can hang out. Because you're awesome, Santana. You're awesome and pretty and you always smell good and whenever I see you my heart goes crazy and I'm not just saying this stuff because I've gotten attached to you or whatever else it is Rachel keeps trying to tell me, I'm telling you this because…because I love you, Santana. I totally do and it's probably really sappy or whatever but I don't care because it's true. And this letter ended about six sentences ago and I'm pretty much rambling on because you're not saying anything."

Brittany's hands are shaking fiercely, the paper still held in front of her face, a thin barrier between herself and Santana.

She sees two hands pinch the top of the paper and then watches as it rips straight down the middle, barrier destroyed.

Santana's still sitting across from her, still smiling. But she's crying too and keeps crying, not saying a word as she reaches out to Brittany's face cupping her cheeks and kissing her softly, sweetly.

And for the first time since they've met, Santana is the one who's speechless.


	13. The Bodyguard

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Hi. It just dawned on me that it's Friday the 13th and I'm posting two chapter thirteens. Creepy. Thanks for reading and the reviews guys. I'm lovin' it. This one is more of a set-up "time" because I totally am going to make it a story. Maybe. Depends on the feedback. That being said, it reads like a part of a whole or teaser, rather than a stand-alone. Thanks to my Beta and I hope everyone is doing okay. Thanks again.

**Gleecap: **So, I took away one thing and one thing only from Tuesday's episode: Quinn Fabray is off her nutter. She _has _to be, you know? Because only a person who is certifiably insane would ignore the douchebaggery (that's not a word, is it? Oh well. It is now) of her boyfriend and go after Rachel. I mean this guy practically ignored her all night, leering at his ex-girlfriend and then he picks a fight with said _ex_-girlfriend's date and gets himself kicked out of the prom you were trying to become queen of and you go go after...Rachel? Seriously Quinn Fabray, get your shit together. You should have been punching Finn in the junk instead of slapping (the shit, did ya'll see that?) out of Rachel. I am so glad I'm able to separate reality from fiction because I love Cory (even though right now I kinda hate him because of the Canucks thing) but I hate Finn with the fire of 100 suns. That being said, I loved the episode. Granted Figgins probably shoudn't have read Kurt's name (like, he knew that that was wrong. His face said it. So why would you even put it out there man? Fail, Figgins. Just...fail) and Santana was awesome again (Naya Rivera is on point) and Karofsky - excuse me - Dave is so multi-dimensional it's heartbreaking (Kudos, Max Adler). Man, where did they find these people? _Glee_ really lucked out. Anyways, what are you guys' thoughts on the episode?

* * *

><p>It was a pretty typical Saturday morning.<p>

At least for her.

Looking back on it there was no way she would have been able to predict what would happen next–

A set of events that would change her life forever.

***o*O*o***

Still nursing a hangover from the night before, Santana Lopez is just living on a prayer.

She knows she should probably get up soon lest Mrs. Rodriguez "accidentally" grab her newspaper again; a story that Santana would be more inclined to believe if Mrs. Rodriguez actually _had_a newspaper subscription.

But her bed feels so good and so warm and still totally smells like the guy she'd kicked out of it the night before.

Ben (or Finn, maybe) wasn't really keen on being "used" – his words, not hers – but, she wasn't too keen on waking up next to strangers and seeing as it was her house, guess who won that one?

It's not like it's a thing – her thing, you could say – but she's just not a relationship girl. She doesn't get all the Hallmark holidays that demand you be sappy and romantic and she definitely doesn't understand this overwhelming need for people to rush toward monogamous (read: monotonous) coupledoms.

It's much more fun to smile and flirt and hook up for the night, cutting ties and attachments before the sun comes up.

Unless of course you were extra impressive in the sack. Then she might be tempted to go for seconds.

Her cousin used to tell her she just hadn't found Mr. Right; she'd always reply that she was fine with Mr. Right now.

They never really did see eye to eye.

Anyway, all asides aside, Santana should probably be getting up soon to avoid the paper drama and maybe eat something because her stomach is doing its garbage disposal impression again. She yawns widely, performing a full-body stretch.

The house, inherited, is quiet as she pads through it half-asleep, tank-top, boyshorts, and a barely-on robe her only attire.

She's just about to go start the coffeemaker when she thinks she hears a gate open, and changes course quickly, wanting to catch the old bitch in the act.

She dashes to her front door, yanking it open and is surprised to find an impeccably dressed young man there, caught off guard.

They both are actually and he takes a step back, reaching into his shirt pocket.

"Hi," he says, pulling out a wallet, his eyes drifting downward and basically doing what's appropriate (this _is_ Santana after all) and she tugs her robe closed. "Ms. Lopez?

"Ms. Lopez was my mother. My name's Santana," she says, raising an eyebrow at the guy. It's then that she notices another guy on her lawn, also sharply dressed. "What are you the Jehovah's Witness or something?"

The young man looks confused for a moment but then he just smiles, shaking his head. He's got some kind of an accent, Santana notices, but she can't place it. "Actually, if you would, Ms. Lopez, we'd like for you to come with us," he says, reaching for her.

Santana slaps his hand away.

"Do I look like I was born yesterday? I'm not going with any strange guys I don't know regardless of how good-looking they are," she says, stepping back into her house and attempting to close the door – attempting because the man now has a firm hand on it .

"Ms. Lopez," he says, his voice slightly more authoritative. "I'm afraid I must insist. Your life is in danger."

His weight is pressing against the door and now the man on the lawn is easing closer, and she detects movement to her right where third man, identically dressed, is trying to go around to the back of her house.

"What the hell is going on?" she yells, trying to push the door closed but the man's still forcing it and then the one on the lawn's jacket flashes open and she sees the glint of the gun handle.

Hell.

To.

The.

No.

"Shit," she curses, shoving her full weight against the door and managing to both close and lock it.

She only has a second to breathe before there's a loud bang, the young man's shoulder crashing into the door, trying to force it open.

There's another sound now, a distant rumbling she can't place, but Santana's only focus is on getting to her phone and calling the police.

She rushes around the goddamn corner into her bedroom and slaps her hand against the empty goddamn cradle, remembering that she left the goddamn phone in the goddamn living room last night because her goddamn cousin has the uncanny ability to call at those "crucial moments" if you catch her drift, but that sucks because now she has to go back into the goddamn living room where the goddamn crazy men are trying to break in.

_God_damn.

Her decision is made for her though when her bedroom window shatters, the noise and her scream enough to startle the man who's now trying to climb into her room.

She darts back into the living room, spotting the phone on the loveseat but her front door finally gives – right while she's in the walkway, so maybe the "perfect timing" thing is genetic – and the man freezes, momentarily surprised by his accomplishment while Santana is literally stunned into inaction.

Her mind goes blanker than Jessica Simpson on _Jeopardy!_ and she just closes her eyes, the men scrambling toward her and then…

Santana's back door clatters to the floor with a loud thud and a motorcycle – _a freaking motorcycle _– sits atop it, the wheels burning out on her tiled kitchen floor.

Fuck.

That's going to leave one _hell_ of a scuff mark.

"Get down!" she hears somebody yell, before the figure on the motorcycle – wearing a kick-ass fire-red leather suit (yeah, she notices) – kicks a leg down and pulls round a monster-looking shotgun.

She gets down on instinct and her eardrums rattle like hell when the two loud _BOOMS _erupt through her house, her hands covering her ears reflexively.

The noise stops for a moment but then start up again, and Santana feels more than she hears someone trip over her legs and fall, motionless.

She's freaking out.

She's deaf and scared and there's adrenaline pumping through her blood and she feels like she could build a fucking skyscraper and die all at the same time.

But she refuses to open her eyes.

The floor stops vibrating – the result of the bike being turned off she guesses – and Santana prays to every Saint she can remember from Catholic school.

The list is so long she wonders how Catholicism is still considered a monotheistic religion.

She squints her eyes closed and jumps a mile when a gloved hand touches her forearm, but the touch is so gentle that she can't help but look up.

The motorcyclist is kneeling over her, helmet still on and shotgun still thrown over a shoulder, but the person seems like they're saying something and that they want Santana to answer.

She would reply but she can't _hear_ a damn thing.

"What?" she yells/asks, pointing to her ears.

The motorcyclist gets into a standing position and reaches up for his helmet but then he turns suddenly, aiming the shotgun toward the corner of the kitchen and Santana almost throws herself on the floor again but then she sees a spot of fur from between the motorcyclist's legs and leaps to her feet, yelling out 'NO!' at the top of her lungs.

She crouches down and holds out her arms, the small dog leaping into them with ease. "What the hell?" she yells, her brows scrunched. Gun or no gun, shit just got real. "This is Oscar, my guard dog," she said, emphasis on guard at which the motorcyclist loses it, slapping a gloved hand onto a toned thigh.

The helmet comes off and Santana's hearing comes back…a little.

"Your _guard_ _dog_?" the woman – yep, that's right – laughs, holding her stomach. "You call that wig a _guard dog_? It's more like a moldy Chia pet."

Santana is flabbergasted.

Thunderstruck.

Did this chick just insult Oscar?

"Excuse me. Look, I don't know who the hell you think you are but you come into my home, breaking down my door, and shooting up my shit _and_ you think you're going to get away with making fun of Oscar too? I don't think so," Santana snaps, putting the dog down and holding up her fists. "Come on. I'll kick your ass."

And she feels like she probably can.

She's _that_ pissed.

The woman smiles and holds up her hands. "I'm sorry," she says. "But how you can look me in the face and say that that little thing-" she points to Oscar, who yips in response, "is a guard dog, even when you know that I know he was probably cowering in a corner somewhere with his tail between his legs when those guys came after you. Not to mention that I happen to be a mixed martial arts master, skilled in mortal combat, and I happen to be carrying several weapons. You, sweetie, couldn't kick my ass if I turned around and bent over."

Santana's so amped that she has temporarily forgotten about what started this whole ordeal, and glancing down at her legs, she sees blood stains, thick and red but, thankfully, not her own

She peers behind the woman, swallowing thickly. "Those guys?"

"A non-issue," the woman shrugs, blocking her view.

Santana swallows again, feeling bile work its way up her throat. "You?"

"A…_bit_ of an issue," the woman winks, taking off a glove. She holds her hand out to Santana and given the good one, two, or probably twelve-foot gap between them it's up to Santana to make the first move. "I'm Brittany."

Santana nods, unmoving.

"Give me your hand," the woman laughs, motioning her forward. "I don't bite. Honest. I had a bad bout one time and bit this guy and he tasted so rank that I've never been able to shake the experience. People should not naturally taste like cottage cheese."

Santana blinks.

"Look, if I wanted to kill you, don't you think you'd be dead already?" she says, shaking the shotgun to emphasize her point. "You're the last person I'd want to harm. Trust me."

Now, that "T" word? That's probably the worst word possible to use around Santana.

Because, like Homey the clown from _In Living Color_, she "don't play that."

Santana actually takes a step back. "Why?"

"Because…" the woman starts, taking a deep breath, and then the words start pouring like water from a broken faucet. "…I've been entrusted by your father with protecting your life. Now, I know you think your father is Armando Lopez. He is not. Your actual father is a man named Hector Delgado. I actually should say was. He died recently. And for reasons we really can't get into right now, you need to come with me because there is trouble headed your way. Literally. Like right now. Like get behind me."

Santana shrieks and launches behind Brittany, when the woman whips out a .38 with her right hand, shooting seemingly blindly at Santana's refrigerator.

Santana watches in horror as a man staggers out from her pantry, clutching his chest and gasping for a breath that he's not getting.

That's all she sees before Brittany gets in her way.

"I really dig the startled and aloof looks but right now we have to go. Everyone's got a jump on this place. I have to get you to a safer location. Grab some clothes and anything that you think is important. We won't be coming back here for a while."

Santana somehow manages to avoid looking into the living room when she goes into her bedroom, pulling some clothes and underwear out of her dresser, Oscar right behind her.

She can hear Brittany moving around in the other rooms of her house, dragging things, and she's a little grateful.

By the time she emerges, two loaded duffel bags and Oscar's kennel slung over her shoulders, the bodies are gone and Brittany's smiling up at a portrait of three-year old her.

"You were kind of chubby as a kid, huh?" the blonde asks with a chuckle and Santana reddens which is both mildly inappropriate and completely embarrassing, the realization of which only causes her to redden further.

"Excuse _you_," she says, rolling her eyes. "It's called baby fat."

"I'm not teasing," the blonde shrugs, her eyes catching Santana's. "You're a cutie."

Santana rolls her eyes, averts them. "Thanks."

There's a moment.

It's weird.

But it passes and Brittany shifts, putting her gloves back on. "You got everything?"

Santana sighs, shifting the bags on her shoulders. "Yeah. I guess."

Brittany slows for a moment. "I know this is tough for you. And I'll explain more to you when we get away from here but-"

Santana waves her off. "Yeah, yeah. Don't got time. People wanna kill me."

Brittany smiles but even Santana notices it's kind of forced. "Right. Hold on a second. Someone's on your front lawn," she says, bushing past Santana.

Santana sticks to the woman with the gun because, well, she's not an idiot.

Brittany kicks open the screen door, gun poised and ready to fire. "Hands up."

Mrs. Rodriguez drops the newspaper, her knees trembling badly as she tries to touch the clouds.

Santana's jaw drops. "Oh my God. _Shoot_ her."

***o*O*o***

Clutching her newspaper, Santana follows Brittany back into the house, the blonde now shouldering both of her duffel bags.

Brittany hops onto her bike, pulling her helmet back on before thrusting another identical one at Santana.

It's only then that Santana realizes her intentions.

"_You_ want _me_ to get _on_ that thing?"

Brittany puts up the visor so that she can look at Santana with no barriers. "How else did you think we were getting out of here?"

"Don't you have a car?"

Brittany nods, putting the bike in neutral and twisting the throttle and hitting the starter switch, the bike revving to life immediately after.

Santana's shoulders visibly relax, but Brittany just stays there, waiting for Santana to put on the helmet. "Well, where is it?"

"Oh," Brittany says, cottoning on. "It's not here. It's back at a safe house. C'mon Santana. I've been riding bikes since I could walk practically."

Santana breathes deeply before slipping on her helmet, limbs notably trembling. She swings Oscar's carrier onto her back, and climbs onto the bike, Brittany tilting it slightly to give her a better advantage.

"Hold on," Brittany says loudly to be heard over the sound of the bike, pulling her visor back down and Santana doesn't need to be told that twice, her arms tightening in a vice-grip around Brittany's midsection. "This part might be a little scary!"

"Which part?" Santana yells, the words catching in the back of her throat as Brittany revs up one more time before pulling off, fast, and Santana screams like a little girl when the bike accelerates from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.

This was going to be one hell of a ride.


	14. Embracing the Unexpected

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Well, Glee's done it again; effectively screwing with my ability to be both a sports nut and a Gleek. Not only do I have to figure out how I'm going to watch the Canucks hopefully _lose_, I also have to figure in the Bulls game all while trying to watch the – like I'm not gonna – _season finale_ of _Glee_. Not fair. Also not fair: the amount of time between updates. I really need to get it together. Hopefully things will even out after this wedding, oops, my bad, civil union, is over. I can get back to normal with my writing schedule. Anyway, thanks for sticking it out with me and reading and reviewing. I'm hoping that this one was/is worth the wait. By the way, without giving anything away, I think everyone's expectations should be pretty low for this finale. It'll save you some heart trauma. Okay, on to the update.

* * *

><p>"Mommy, why do I hafta wear this?"<p>

Brittany looks down at her three-year-old son, standing in his nice suit with his little shoelaces still undone, and she feels a knot forming in the back of her throat.

This isn't something she'd imagined ever having to do when she got married seven years ago.

"_Brittany, stop bouncing," Quinn admonishes, wiping a stray smudge of mascara away with her pinky. "You're making me mess up."_

_Brittany stops her knee from bouncing for all of two seconds before it starts right back up again._

"_I can't help it, Quinn. I'm so excited," the bubbly blonde whispers out, trying not to blink and keep her face as still as possible._

_Rachel flounces in next, clipboard in hand. "Let's see. We have, something borrowed, blue and old," she says, circling the duo for a moment before coming to a stop next to Quinn. "Q, have you given her the…" she gestures, "…thing, yet?"_

_Quinn shakes her head slightly, straightening up and capping the mascara bottle. "I can't believe you're actually doing this, Britt."_

_Brittany smoothes her hands down the front of her poufy dress. "I can't either."_

_Rachel smiles warmly at them both before catching Quinn's eye and nodding. "I'll leave you two alone then."_

"_Thanks Rach," Quinn breathes, feeling her chest tighten momentarily when Rachel pecks her quickly on the lips. It's still new and fresh for her, and doing it in front of Brittany for the first time might have something to do with that too._

_She waits until Rachel is out of the room before turning to Brittany, who's smiling at her like she's just done the most incredible thing._

_But, then again, Brittany's always looked at her like that. From the first time they met and Quinn made some four-eyed geek eat dirt for making Brittany cry – the whole incident was completely accidental, the boy having brushed against Brittany's arm, making her blow pop fall to the playground floor – Brittany had always looked at her like she was the second coming of some glittery unicorn._

_Brittany's words, not hers._

_And as she stands before the girl on Brittany's wedding day, she's suddenly struck by how much like family her best friend has become. _

"_I'm terrible at speeches," she says quietly, her hand brushing against the bulge in her clutch. "I always cry and if I start crying right now, I'll completely ruin my make-up."_

"_I'll fix it for you," Brittany volunteers cheerfully._

"_We don't have time, Britt," Quinn tells her, pulling out the velvet box. "But, I have to give you this now."_

"_Okay," Brittany says, holding out her hand._

_Quinn places the box in her hand, smiling even though she feels her traitorous eyes betraying her. "You're my bestest friend in the whole world Britt. Don't forget that. And if that _boy_ starts any trouble, I'll be right here. Here's your something new."_

_Brittany smiles warmly as she cracks open the box, her mouth falling open at what she finds. It's not fancy; it's actually probably not even that expensive, but the tiny gold necklace bearing a single loop-lettered charm may very well be priceless._

"_It says 'sister'," Brittany informs her, stroking the word gently. _

_Quinn picks up the chain and moves to put it around the girl. "That's because you _are_ my sister, Brittany. I'm closer to you than I am to my actual sister. And, honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way."_

_Brittany's eyes glimmer with unshed tears. "Thanks, Quinn," she whispers, her smile watery. "Thank you so much."_

_***o*O*o***_

_She can see him but she's pretty sure he can't see her if the way he's craning his neck is any indication._

_He looks so handsome standing there at the front of the altar and, as soon as they're done here, she's going to try to persuade him to wear tuxedos more often._

_When he does see her she knows. She knows because her heart rate picks up when he smiles like the sun, and when he looks happy, nervous, and excited all at once._

_She knows because she's sure she looks the same._

_It takes a small eternity to walk up to the front of the aisle, mostly because she doesn't want to crush the beautiful rose petals, but also because her train is slowing her down._

_But when she gets there, she knows that this will be forever._

"_Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join Brittany Susan Pierce and Noah Isaac Puckerman in holy matrimony…"_

She kneels down so that she's eye-level with the boy, and finds herself staring into eyes eerily familiar.

"Because we want to look especially nice for Daddy, don't we?" she asks him and Junior nods, smiling brightly and displaying all of his tiny teeth.

"Now, come on," she says, scooping him up and sitting him on the edge of the bed, tying one shoe and then the other.

"Where are we going again, Mommy? I forget," he says, kicking out his feet a little bit.

"Church." Brittany replies simply.

"And Daddy's going to be there?" Noah Junior asks excitedly, his eyes lighting up. "Right?"

Brittany gives him a watery smile and touches her stomach absently. "Yes. Daddy's going to be there."

_The NBA cares, the community outreach program for the National Basketball Association, arrived on base a short while ago and Puck is the first in line, his sergeant having grabbed him from a softball game with some of his platoon mates._

_He'd just arrived on base about three days ago and had a lot of catching up to do._

"_What's this about Serge?"_

"_You've got a phone call," the older man gruffly said, shoving him into one of the large NBA canopies. Puck's not sure but he's pretty certain he can detect a smile on the hardened man's face._

_Whatever._

"_Are you Pvt. Puckerman?" a woman asks him, holding a mangled list._

_He nods, removing his cap. "What's going on?"_

"_Follow me."_

_She leads him to a room where a bunch of soldiers we sitting in front of computer screens, headsets on._

_She gestures for him to take an empty seat and he does, sliding the headphones into place._

_The screen before him is blank but the woman flips a switch and the monitor's dark static soon forms an image, instantly bringing a smile to his face._

"_Brittany?" he grins, inadvertently holding the headphones tighter._

"_Hi baby," Brittany beams, looking at him through the camera._

_Puck would never admit this to anyone but he's getting a little chocked up. "Hey," he manages to get out._

"_I've got something to show you," she says excitedly, slipping away for a moment, forgetting that she's plugged into the computer and a piercing sound cuts through the headphones making him grimace slightly._

"_Oops," she mutters, returning in seconds. "Sorry babe."_

_Puck chuckles. "It's okay. So, what did you want to show me? And let me know beforehand if it's sexy times because I'm surrounded by a roomful of men and that'll be pretty hard to explain."_

"_As if they wouldn't enjoy the show," Brittany laughs and he laughs along, nodding._

"_You're right."_

"_Okay, but this is what I wanted to show you."_

_Brittany holds up some weird-looking pen and even as he squints, he can't quite make out what it is or the significance of it._

"_What's that Britt?"_

"_It's a test. I just took it a few hours ago and then I called to see if we could Skype. See, two lines means yes and one line means no, but there's two lines-"_

"_A pregnancy test?" he suddenly screeches, his voice jarring._

"_Yes. Puck, baby, we're going to have a-"_

"_BABY!" Puck hoots, thrusting a fist into the air and jumping out of his seat. The image on the monitor shakes and he sits back down, pressing a hand against the screen. _

"_Oh my God, Brittany. I'm so happy. We're gonna have a baby," he says, his eyes beyond watery._

_Brittany places her hand against the monitor, pressing her hand against the outline of his._

"_Yes, we are," she whispers back, her eyes finding his. "I love you."_

"_I love you too, Brittany," he says, leaning closer to the screen. _

_They stay like that a while and when the connection finally times out, Puck emerges from the hut with a giant smile on his face. _

"_I'm gonna be a daddy!"_

And he became one on March 12, 2008.

Brittany remembers the day vividly, which is still a marvel to her considering how much medication they had her on, but she does remember it.

Everything down to the exact moment their two became three.

"_Britt, how do you feel?" Quinn asks, her fingers trailing through Brittany's sweat-dampened hair._

_Brittany mewls, relaxing back against the pillows. "I feel fine. Where's Puck?"_

"_He's on his way. Rachel called and said she'd just picked him up from the airport."_

_Brittany's doctor comes in then, all polite smiles and the picture of calmness even though Quinn is a mess of nerves._

"_Let's see how everything is coming along," the woman says, not even taking a second glance before diving underneath the gown and curtain hiding all of what's going on with Brittany._

"_Oh, boy. We're almost ready to roll," the woman's muffled voice says. "And it looks like I won't even have to cut ya."_

_Quinn feels a little squeamish._

_Brittany feels a little high._

"_So, are we ready?" the woman asks, her head back up and facing them both._

_Brittany makes a noise of protest – delighted though it may be. "But Puck's not here yet."_

_Quinn dips down and presses a quick kiss to her best friend's temple. "The baby's coming Brittany. We can't wait any longer."_

_Brittany pouts spectacularly. "Not without Puck."_

_Quinn looks up at the doctor, her eyes pleading. _

"_Alright," the doctor acquiesces. "A few more minutes. But after that ladies, I simply can't wait any longer."_

_***o*O*o***_

_On her first push, the doors to her room swing open and Puck rushes in, Rachel still hurriedly draping scrubs over his uniform. "Did I miss it? Is he here?"_

"_Puck," Brittany smiles loopily, breathless as she pushes through another contraction. "You made it."_

"_Sir, you can't-" a nurse starts toward him,but Quinn quickly heads her off. _

"_He's the father, okay?" she says, patting Brittany's head once before moving away and placing her mask over his ears. "He stays. I'll go."_

_Puck's eyes crinkle and she knows he's smiling. "Thanks Quinn."_

"_Go," Quinn nods to Brittany. "Go be with your girl."_

_***o*O*o***_

_Fifteen minutes and four pushes later the doctor flicks a writhing, slimy, gook-covered thing on the foot and Puck actually thinks about hitting a girl for the first time in his life when the baby cries, but then he remembers it's to help the baby – his baby – breathe._

_He's on autopilot when he cuts the cord, his hand steady even though the rest of him is vibrating._

_He feels Brittany squeeze his hand and turns his gaze back to her – the woman he loves – lowering his head to press a kiss against her sweaty brow. "Thank you, baby," he whispers, face close to hers._

"_You're welcome," she drawls, still somewhat out of it. "Is he here? Is he okay?"_

_Puck cranes his head over the nurses and the doctor to look over at where their quieting baby is getting cleaned up, his tiny hands reaching toward the sky._

"_He's perfect."_

***o*O*o***

The weather is fitting it seems.

All dark and ominous but without a drop of rain in the forecast.

It was the way their friends always thought of them and their relationship: Puck was the gloomy day just waiting for Brittany, his spot of sunshine.

But there wouldn't be any sunshine today, because Brittany's light went out the day she answered the door to two fully decorated soldiers.

Private Noah Isaac Puckerman died in service – a raid gone horribly awry.

They'd be sending him home on the next flight back.

Brittany smoothes her hands over her black dress, the material clinging tightly to her slightly swollen stomach, and reaches down to hold onto Noah Jr.'s, the little boy staring at the giant church doors in awe.

***o*O*o***

She hears the whispers throughout most of the service.

About Puck:

"Such a good young man" and, "Gone too soon."

About her:

"She's so young, and now a single, widowed mother," and "What will she do? And with another on the way?"

She hears them all and by the end of the service she just wants to crawl into a box and die – maybe she will.

Noah Junior is blissfully unaware and she's grateful to Quinn and Rachel for taking care of him today because she knows the reality will kick in far too soon.

And she dreads the day he will wake up and ask her, "When is Daddy coming home?"

Her thoughts have drifted so far that she's caught completely off-guard by the arrival of another person standing in front of her, until said person clears her throat discreetly.

"Sorry," the other woman mutters sheepishly. "I didn't want to scare you. Looks like I still messed up though."

Brittany doesn't do anything but nod, her mind too numb to do anything else.

"I just," the woman hunches her shoulders up, searching for words. "I wanted to personally extend my condolences. I was going to send a card but that seemed so…impersonal to me. And I want to be genuine."

Brittany blinks, her head tilting slightly. "Thank you but, do I know you?"

"Oh, right," the woman says, smiling politely but somber enough to not be inappropriate for a funeral. "I'm Santana Lopez – an old friend of Puck's."

"I don't ever recall him mentioning you."

The woman – Santana – smiles wryly. "Old girlfriend of Noah's, I guess I should say, so he probably wouldn't have. He was my first real boyfriend though and when I'd heard about, you know, what happened, I had to come and say my goodbyes. You know what they say: 'You never forget your first'."

"Oh," Brittany says.

"Yeah," Santana says.

Awkward.

"Anyways, Noah happened before I saw the light – the rainbow-colored light," the woman says, wanting to smooth her last statement over. She didn't want Puck's widow thinking she was still hung up on the guy.

Brittany doesn't really get what that means, but she smiles – really smiles – for the first time in ages.

"I like rainbows."

Santana's smile spreads slowly, but it's genuine, not forced like most of the ones Brittany's seen all day.

"Sweet."

***o*O*o***

It breaks her heart but she's all out of tears, and she just stands there puffy-eyed as Noah Jr. hugs and kisses the coffin where his daddy is "sleeping".

She watches them lower him into the ground as Quinn stands beside her, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Rachel's on the other side, pressing into her so closely that she thinks maybe they're supporting her both emotionally and physically.

She says her goodbyes silently, the first shovels of dirt carefully tossed on top of his mahogany coffin.

'Goodbye Noah.'

Across the way, with another batch of friends and family, her eye catches Santana mouthing the exact same thing.

***o*O*o***

After never having met the woman before, Brittany finds it nothing short of amazing that Santana's now making regular appearances in her everyday routine.

A routine that up until this date had consisted of getting up, taking Noah Jr. to daycare before going on a run, and then hitting Starbucks to jump-start the rest of her day.

Well, since she's gotten pregnant again, the running thing has been out of the question. Her nose is way too sensitive and baby number two doesn't like the smell of fresh cut grass or rain or sweat so the jogging routine is out the window.

The baby does however like the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and danishes.

Chocolate covered danishes to be exact and who is Brittany to deny that urge?

Answer: No one.

However, her trips to the local Starbucks have grown lengthier due to her growing baby's preferences, and Brittany notices that the other woman frequents the same location, stopping in at the same time every morning and ordering the same drink, and flipping her hair back the same way, and, okay, so maybe Brittany's gotten a little obsessive.

But she can't help it.

Part of her thinks it's because of all the women Puck dated before her – and the list is _long,_ my friends – he'd never once mentioned a thing about this one.

And looking at her, Brittany could see why.

Puck – for all of his womanizing ways – had a type. Always blonde, usually light eyes, and well, white. Like white, white. And this Santana girl was…not that.

At all.

One day though, she forgets to sit all the way in the corner, mostly because she is tired, but part of her thinks she just wants to stop being weird and ask the other woman about all those lingering questions.

So she settles in close to the register and waits, tearing a napkin to shreds until she hears what has now become a familiar voice.

"One grande white chocolate frappucino with a shot of raspberry please," the woman sweetly asks, and Brittany's so tuned in she can hear the woman's fingers tapping away on the glass counter.

It barely takes a moment, the barista having memorized the woman's order ages ago, and within seconds Brittany hears the tale-tell sounds of the other woman's heels scraping across the linoleum floor to the prep table.

Brittany watches as she grabs paper napkins – two – and a straw – the one for cold drinks – and holds her breath when the woman turns around, forcing herself to look down at the table she's seated at.

The heels start and stop suddenly before starting up again at a slower pace. They slow to a stop next to her and she's tentative when she looks up, trying not to give anything away. "Hi."

"Hey," the woman says, sounding a bit too eager and a lot like she's known Brittany for ages.

It's startling but at the same time, incredibly comforting.

"I'm going to say something really weird again," Santana says, fingering the straw in her drink. "Can I join you?"

Brittany's eyes widen because even though she wants answers, she'd never thought it'd be this easy to get them. "I'm…not…" she starts, but then has no idea how to finish that sentence much less why she started it in the first place.

"Hey, look, it's fine," Santana dismisses, shifting her weight form one foot to the other. "If you're meeting someone here, I can just take off."

"I, um, no," Brittany finally says, her hands twisting a shred of napkin still in her grasp. "I'm not meeting anyone."

Santana smiles haltingly. "So, can I join you?"

Brittany's not sure why it happens or what it means but her stomach jumps when she gives a little nod.

***o*O*o***

They're on Rachel and Quinn's back porch – but, shh, as far as Quinn's concerned it's still only Rachel's – when she finally broaches the topic of Santana with Quinn.

She's not entirely sure why she's been keeping it a secret, but she's been hanging out with Santana a little bit.

Mostly just talking over coffee during her stops in the morning, but sometimes they go on grocery trips too.

It's fun.

And it seems like after Noah died, Brittany stopped having fun.

She likes the feeling but a small part of her feels guilty because maybe it's too soon for her to be having fun again.

Maybe that's why she's been keeping it a secret.

Still, the cat is out of the box or bag or whatever it is that means the secret is out.

Brittany's not good at remembering idioms.

"She dated Puck?"

Quinn's look is an incredulous one.

"I know," Brittany nods, sipping on her chocolate milkshake and rubbing her ever-growing baby bump.

"But she's brunette, right?"

"Mmmhmm."

"And Latina?"

"Mexican, to be exact."

"Whoa," Quinn says, sitting back in her chair. "That's weird."

Brittany watches her carefully. "You don't think it's weird that I'm hanging out with her, right?"

"No," Quinn says, grinning quickly. "She _is_ your type," she teases and Brittany doesn't quite get the joke, choking on a mouthful of shake.

"Oh dear Lord," Quinn mutters, reaching over to pat her gently yet forcefully on the back. "It was just a joke woman. Pull yourself together."

"You don't make jokes like that when someone has a mouthful of chocolate milkshake," she gasps out, leaning over slightly.

Quinn smirks, relaxing back into her seat before turning serious again. "But, honestly, I don't think it's weird. You hanging out with her. She sounds pretty cool and you need a friend."

"I _have_ a friend," Brittany says cutely.

"Well, yeah. You do but, maybe you need someone around you who doesn't, you know, remind you so much of him," Quinn says with startling clarity, and, as always, breaking it down so that even Brittany's slightly jumbled mind can comprehend.

"Yeah," Brittany whispers, her throat closing up unexpectedly. "Maybe."

Quinn notices her friend drifting into herself again and decides to switch it up, even if it will inevitably result in egg on her face. "So, since Puck had a dark side, do you think all of these years he was secretly pining for Rachel?"

Brittany laughs out loud at that one. Puck and Rachel's fondness for each other barely extended beyond the occasional "hi", "bye", and "shut up". They fought like brother and sister.

"Nope. Sorry Quinnie the Pooh. That was all you," Brittany laughs, nudging the other woman on the elbow.

Quinn smiles ruefully, flushing even though she knows it's true.

She's always been sprung over that midget.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's house is clean.

Immaculate even.

She can see her reflection in the hardwood floors and the mantle and every other horizontal surface has been dusted at least three times.

She's extremely nervous and why that is is completely insane.

She's acting as if she's never had anyone in her home before, which is absolutely crazy because her mom was just here like two days ago and they've had more parties here than she can count.

Still, the knowledge that in a few short minutes Santana will be in her home has her freaking the hell out, and she can't figure out why.

It must be the hormones.

_Ding. Dong._

Little feet land on the kitchen floor and before she can say anything, Noah Jr. streaks past her a in blur of dark brown hair and giggles.

"Door-bell," he sings, "Door-bell. Someone's at the do-or."

"Don't open it yet," Brittany warns, moving to catch up.

By the time she does though, Santana's already smiling in greeting, the door wide open and Noah's wide eyes staring up at her. "Oops."

"Yeah, oops," Brittany says, looking pointedly at the youngster.

"It's totally okay Brittany. I already gave him a firm talking to. He's no longer going to open the door for anyone unless his mommy tells him to, right little man?"

Noah nods, looking back at the other lady gratefully.

"See?" Santana says to Brittany. "Suitably chastised. Although, I think the tyke has better manners. Can I come in?"

"Oh my God, yes. Yeah, of course," Brittany says, moving about her house hurriedly. "We can sit in the living room or…the kitchen. Or, you know, if you want to go outside we can do that too. Um, are you thirsty? Hungry? I don't have much but…I guess I could whip up a sandwich real quick."

"Britt," Santana says, grabbing the other woman's forearms. "Calm down."

Brittany blinks. "I'm calm."

"If this is you calm then I'd hate to see you riled up. It's just me, okay? Santana? We can sit where you want and drink what you want; stop being so nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Brittany says firmly. "Not anymore anyway," she admits and Santana grins.

"Good," the woman says, leading Brittany through her own house to the living room sofa. "Now sit down whilst I converse about the fabulous day I had yesterday, and then you'll do the same like we always do, only now we don't have to compete with the sounds of an amazingly loud iPod or someone screeching because they spilled a drop of coffee on their crotch."

"That happened once," Brittany grins.

Santana shrugs. "Semantics."

***o*O*o***

Fifth pee break in two hours.

That has to be some kind of record.

What's also some kind of record: this is the absolute longest she's ever spent with Santana – even their shopping excursions don't take this long – and even still, she doesn't want their time together to end.

In fact, just the mere thought of it makes her lips turn down in a frown, so she doesn't, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Santana seems to be wrapped up in a deep and meaningful conversation with her son.

"What's this one?" she hears the woman question quietly.

"That's Optimus Prime," Noah Junior recites in a child's deep voice. "He's the leader of the autobots."

"That's really cool. Is he your favorite?"

The boy nods eagerly, still jiggling the plastic toy. "It's my bestest thing. Sometimes Mommy plays with me too but, she can't do the voices like Daddy," he says, sounding sad. "Do you know my Daddy?"

"I knew your Daddy, yeah," Santana says and Brittany moves up a little further so that she can see better.

They're sitting next to each other on the floor in the living room, just on the edge of the area rug.

"He was the bestest daddy in the whole big world. Didja know that?"

Santana smiles warmly. "I didn't know that. But I do know that he has the bestest little boy in the whole big world."

Noah thinks about this before grinning. "That's me."

"Sure is."

"Wanna know a secret?"

Santana nods.

"Mommy's got a baby in her tummy and it's growing and at first I was scared 'cause it sounded yucky but now I think it's so cool."

"I think so too."

"And you know what else?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna be the baby's big brother," Noah squeals excitedly, clasping his little stumpy hands together.

"That, little man, is awesome," Santana says, smiling widely.

"And you know what else?" he whispers, loudly though. Little kids don't really get it, I guess.

"What?"

Noah peers up at her, looking quite blank before suddenly smiling. "I likes you Tana."

Santana laughs, loudly. "I like you, too, Noah."

"And," Noah starts, rolling his matchbox car along the rug. "I thinks Mommy likes you too."

Brittany makes her presence known at last, settling behind the pair and brushing her hair behind her ear, ignoring the flush on her cheeks in hopes that Santana will too.

She won't meet the other woman's gaze, so she misses the blush coloring Santana's cheeks as well.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's roughly the size of a house.

No, mansion, and she has the shortest fuse ever, which means that everyone's walking on eggshells around her.

She doesn't remember being this way when she was pregnant with Junior but, maybe Puck just calmed her down all the time.

And then there's Quinn's theory that she's giving birth to several satanic spawn.

Rachel just thinks it's because she's having a girl – something that has yet to be confirmed and won't be confirmed until the delivery.

Her body's just acting very weird. She's on edge all the time and the non-existence of caffeine in her diet is making her crazy. She laughs when she cries, pees when she laughs, and don't even get her started on the dreams.

They've all been this jumbled assortment of non-connected events that span from Rachel turning into a giant elephant and singing on Broadway to Quinn running away to live on Sesame Street. But the only dreams that seem to stick around and stay on her mind are the ones where Santana is involved.

The ones where Santana does more than friendly things to her, if you catch her drift.

It's just a tad uncomfortable – oh, who is she kidding – the reality of what's happening makes her want to stop answering Santana's calls and overall ignore the woman.

She can't though because even on her worst days, Santana Lopez can make her smile like everything's gummy bears and gumdrops.

Such a dilemma.

And this dilemma comes to a startling head over one casual dinner conversation.

It's almost like a date.

In fact, Brittany's somewhat deluded herself into thinking it is one.

Never mind that Santana's invited her out to dinner to try out this new restaurant.

Brittany digs in as soon as the food arrives, even though she's eaten nearly half the bread basket, and in her eagerness she almost doesn't notice Santana not eating.

Almost.

"What's wrong?" Brittany asks after swallowing down a mouthful of food. "Are you not hungry?"

Santana shakes her head, poking at her pasta a few more times before decisively putting her fork down. "Can I tell you something?"

Brittany smiles warmly, detecting the other woman's nerves. "You can tell me anything."

Santana smiles and reaches across the distance between them to place a hand over Brittany's prone one. "I just don't want you to get, like, mad or anything. It's not that I was hiding it from you or anything. I was just waiting for the right time."

"Okay," Brittany nods, suddenly feeling like she knows where this is going. Now, she's the nervous one.

Three words, the wrong words, leave Santana's lips, crushing Brittany with their weightier implications.

"I met someone."

***o*O*o***

Brittany hates Tina Cohen-Chang.

Actually, hate is a pretty strong word.

She needs something stronger like _loathe entirely._

She hates how she smiles at Santana, how she touches Santana, how she…kisses Santana.

It pisses her off.

But she can't do anything more than sulk because it's not like she _wants _Santana.

The woman's her friend and yes, she's probably grown scarily attached to the Latina and those dreams are getting more and more vivid by the night, but that doesn't mean that she wants to kiss her or anything.

She's straight for crying out loud.

She just…doesn't like sharing Santana.

Yeah, that's it.

"Brittany!"

The blonde jerks forward, nearly elbowing her slice of pie off the table and Santana is grinning happily when Brittany focuses back in on her face.

"What?" Brittany grumbles, momentarily forgetting _not_ to snap at Santana.

Santana frowns but lets the tone of her voice roll off her back. "I was talking to you and you completely checked out."

"Let me guess: you were talking about Tina. Again."

_That_ one catches Santana off-guard and she's completely incapable of keeping her emotions off her face. "Okay, what's your problem?"

There's a lot of firsts happening lately for Brittany: first stakeouts, first jealousies. She might as well add the first time Santana ever raised her voice to her on the list as well. It's enough to make her furious and upset all at the same time, so she practically sobs her way through her next biting words. "Maybe I don't want to sit here and listen while you prattle on and on about your _girlfriend_."

She probably shouldn't have said it like that. _Girlfriend_. It makes it seems like she's jealous that _Tina_ is her girlfriend. Which she's not. She's just jealous that Tina _is_ her girlfriend. And now even Brittany's inner-self isn't making any sense.

And judging by the look on Santana's face, she totally caught that.

"Britt, come on," she implores, staring Brittany in her face and moving so close that Brittany's forced to look at her. "What is really going on here? What is this really about?"

Brittany's being pushed to her emotional brink and with her new center of gravity – credit the extra ten-plus pounds of baby she's carrying – she can't help but topple right over the edge.

"I hate Tina," she cries out brokenly.

"Why?" Santana asks and Brittany is suddenly struck by the idea that Santana knows exactly why. She knows and she's just waiting for Brittany to say it.

But Brittany can't.

"I just…I just do."

She can't because it's just wrong.

This is Puck's ex-girlfriend. A woman whom she'd met at her husband's funeral.

A _woman_.

It just isn't right.

"That doesn't make any sense Brittany."

Brittany shrugs. "She isn't right for you."

That's closer to the truth and it's all Brittany can manage right now, sobbing and hormonal in the worst ways. She closes her eyes momentarily and when she opens them Santana is right there, just in front of her, the smallest space possible separating their faces.

"Brittany," Santana says, her eyes piercing. "You have to say it. I won't…I _can't_ unless you say it."

Brittany swallows, completely transfixed and her heart is thudding against her ribcage and the baby inside her is kicking too, as if knowing this moment is important and wanting to be a part of its memory. "_I'm_ right for you."

It's only a whisper but it echoes.

***o*O*o***

Santana's lips and skin feel like clouds.

"You're so soft," Brittany marvels, her hands holding onto Santana's cheeks gently.

They'd kissed and kissed and kissed for hours; until late afternoon stretched into evening and then evening stretched into night.

"You're so…mine," Santana answers, dropping another kiss on Brittany's lips.

Brittany feels her throat tighten and she tangles her fingers in dark tresses. "What happens now?" she whispers.

"Now," Santana starts, trailing her fingers over Brittany's collarbone, "I leave for the night and call Tina, tell her we need to talk. I break up with Tina. And then I come back here, to you."

"I like that," Brittany smiles, her eyes fluttering closed and Santana shifts to kiss her shut eyelids, her nose.

"I like it, too," she breathes, only moving away when she absolutely has to.

***o*O*o***

Quinn's over bright and early the next day to drop off Noah Junior and she notices something is off about Brittany the second the other woman comes to the door.

"Do you think you can keep him for another hour or two today?"

Quinn's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Just…" Brittany peers back over her shoulder, fiddling with the collar of her robe. "…please, Q?"

Now Quinn looks amused. "Who's in there?" she asks, trying to see past Brittany.

"No one," Brittany fibs and Quinn's having no luck moving around her. Noah Junior does however, being so tiny and all. He just ducks behind his mother's legs and runs into the house running smack dab into Santana – sheet-toga and all.

"It's only Tana, Auntie Q!" the small boy yells, rushing off to his room.

"No one, huh?" Quinn says, crossing her arms and smirking as she raises an eyebrow.

"It's super new, Q and I was gonna call you as soon as we…uh, you know, figured out some things."

"I bet," Quinn says, amused. "Like how much sex you could have in a couple of hours."

Santana's grinning face joins Brittany in the doorway. "More like how much _more_ sex," she corrects.

Brittany's cheeks and ears are so pink she looks like she's sunburned, but she tries to maintain her composure. "Can you keep him or no?"

"I'll take Junior back home," Quinn says, rolling her eyes. "But I expect a full lay-out of how this all happened as soon as possible, you hear me, Pierce?"

"Right," Brittany nods. "A.S.A.P."

A couple of minutes later, Noah's packed another bagful of toys and Quinn's cracked just about every sex joke in the book, but they're leaving and as soon as the door closes, Santana's back is pressed against it.

"Eager much?" Santana jokes, her hands forgoing her sheet-toga and instead working on divesting Brittany of her robe.

"It's the hormones," Brittany mumbles out, her lips trailing blistering hot paths up and down Santana's neck.

"Yeah, that Santana gland must be acting up," the Latina jokes, running her hands smoothly down the plane of Brittany's back, smiling when Brittany moans in response.

"Shut up," the blonde murmurs, lifting her head to turn her smoky gaze onto Santana's own, her breath quick.

Santana grins. "Make me."

And, okay, Brittany can do that.

***o*O*o***

Four year-old Noah Jr. swings on his aunt's arms, literally almost bouncing off the walls.

His sibling has arrived and he can't wait to see whoever it is.

Rachel's new gadget is a video camera and she aims it at the young boy. "Are you excited Noah?"

"Yep, yep," the boy says, one front tooth missing from the starting lineup. "I'm a big brother now."

"You sure are," Quinn agrees, flashing first the boy then Rachel a grin.

They enter the room and Noah bounds over to the bed, seeing his mommy and Santana lying in it, a barely wriggling bundle lying between them.

"Take off your shoes little man and come here," Santana says gently, moving to sit up further in the bed.

Noah kicks off his sneakers and bounces to the other side of the bed, only slowing down when Santana tells him to be careful.

Quinn and Rachel move closer to the bed as Santana lifts him up easily, plopping him onto her lap.

"Hey Noah," Brittany rasps out, her eyes finding her son.

He glances at her but he's still looking at the tiny thing lying next to her.

"I want you to meet your little sister. Her name is Maya."

Noah peers at the tiny baby, reaching a tentative hand out to her own. "Hi Maya," he whispers, smiling in glee when the little baby grabs his finger. "She likes me."

"Of course she does," Quinn says. "You're her big brother."

Brittany smiles at her children, both getting to know the other, and then she looks at Quinn and Rachel, the pair sharing mutual looks of love and adoration.

And lastly, she looks at Santana, the woman whom – if she'll have her – she intends to spend the rest of her natural life with.

"I love you," Brittany whispers, her eyes focused on Santana's and the woman leans over to carefully kiss her lips.

"I love you, too."

_Fin._


	15. Kinder Kare

**Discalimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I am beyond excited for this concert next week. Anyway, here's a new chapter. Thanks for hanging around and waiting on me. I'm not going to rag on the episode as I'm in hte minority and did actually enjoy it (although, I have to admit, for something carrying the title of season finale, it was rather anti-climatic). That being said, I have to give it up for season two MVPs Heather Morris and Naya Rivera. To put it mildly, they put Glee on their backs this year. Kudos to the ladies. In any case, I'm done raving. Thanks to my Beta and, as always, thanks to you guys for reading and reviewing. Oh, and look out for this one-shot, post season two, thing I'm working on.

* * *

><p>Brittany is sick.<p>

Like, really sick.

Like, she had to miss school three days in a row sick, and she is really disappointed because Ms. Green was going to show them how to make purple today.

Purple is kinda her favorite color although sometimes she really likes pink.

But instead of smashing her hands into gooey paint and making funny shapes on construction paper, Brittany is trying not to suck on her thumb as she snuggles closer to her mommy's lap because - like her big brother likes to say - sucking on your thumb is for babies.

And Brittany Susan Pierce is _not_ a baby.

She's five and a half.

***o*O*o***

"Bumble Bee." Her mother's voice whispers against her ear, gently stirring her awake.

"Hmm?" Brittany hums, still a lot-a-bit asleep.

"Don't you want to play with the other kids?"

Brittany's eyes pop open, at once excited and scared.

On the one hand, she likes playing and that's always fun with more people around. And it was really fun with people who could talk back and weren't invisible, because then she wouldn't have to do so much work.

But on the other hand, other kids were unpredictable at best, and she was currently on the outs with Mike Chang because he accidentally (_on purpose,_ she maintains) broke her favorite _Pretty Pretty Princess_necklace because he was losing their game.

But on the other hand – does she have any more? – it really was no fun playing that game by yourself. Then it was just like make-believe dress-up and Brittany would forget if she was supposed to be a princess or a model.

Too much work.

Nevertheless, she's always wary of new kids and even though she doesn't have anything anyone could destroy, she still doesn't want to dive head first into the fray.

Her mommy insists however – it might make her feel better – and takes her hand, leading her over to the play area in the office's waiting room, where a bunch of kids, all around Brittany's age, are enjoying each other's company, despite their various ailments.

Her mom abandons her there, just lets her hand go and turns to leave, and Brittany's lower lip trembles pathetically. She finds herself tugging nervously on the suspenders of her pink OshKosh overalls when a boy with a runny nose comes over, all cheerful and loud.

"Hiya!" he squeaks brightly, running the back of his wrist across his nose. "What's your name?"

Brittany looks frightened but points a finger to herself and the boy nods enthusiastically, his big head actually making his body sway with the effort. "Yeah, you."

"Brittany," she stutters out, her fingers clenching around the button of her overalls.

"Hey!" the boy brightens further. "I gotta cousin with that name. She's a baby though. Not a big kids likes us."

She smiles hesitantly but her relief is short-lived when a stocky boy with a round face hobbles up, laughing as he pulls some boy's G.I. Joe head off. "You can have it back when I'm finished, four-eyes," he mumbles, snapping off an arm as well, easily staving off the advances of a bespectacled boy about their age. When he's finished, he hands the toy back, grinning meanly. "All done."

The boys with the glasses' eyes well up and he runs, crying, back to his mother.

"What are you doing, big head?" he asks the nice boy with the runny nose, and Brittany doesn't like him at all.

The mean boy finally notices her and sneers, "We don't talks to girls. Go away."

Brittany's lips trembles in earnest now and the mean boy starts to laugh while the other boy – the one she thought was nice – just looks away.

"Are you gonna cry?" the mean boy asks through his chuckles. "Cry-baby. Cry-baby," he mocks, pointing at her.

Then he's not doing anything except eating the office linoleum, landing with a smack.

"What did I tell you 'bout messin' with other kids?"

Brittany's watery eyes shift over to look at the tiny vigilante, clad only in shorts and a t-shirt with a butterfly on it.

The round-faced boy pops back up, his lip trembling, before he stomps off shouting about telling his mother.

The girl who saved them watches him go with a smirk on her face before turning to the other two kids. "That boy is a stinky head. He won't mess with you guys anymore tho', 'kay?"

Big-head kid nods, but Brittany just stares blankly, wiping at her eyes.

"Did he make you cry?" the girl asks Brittany, a bottom front tooth missing. "'Cause if he makes you cry…" The girl gets mad.

"I'm okay," Brittany mumbles, her eyes finally dried. She smiles at the other girl and the shorter girl smiles back, fully.

"Good. You wanna' play?"

***o*O*o***

The girl with the missing tooth is Santana Lopez.

She's the biggest girl in her family and she has about three Winnie The Pooh band-aids and she's the coolest girl Brittany has ever met.

She knows how to make the doctor's office fun, to make everything an adventure.

Right now, they're trying to find "buried treasure".

"Is anybody coming?" Santana asks her and Brittany peers out from the doorway again, glancing down the deserted the hallway before shaking her head.

Santana wastes no time in getting to the floor, her face nearly pressing against the cold surface as she searches underneath the vending machines.

"I think I see somethin'," she says, reaching her hand under, her tongue poking out from the gap where her tooth is missing. "Most times I gets a buncha pennies and that's cool but I really like getting the silver ones. 'Cause we can use them in the candy machines."

She grunts a little, making a sweeping motion with her arm and Brittany gasps when the girl comes back up with a handful of dust and coins, most brown but some silver.

"Got it," Santana grins, wiping the stay dirt off her arm. "I'mma ask Mama to count it up and see if we can gets some candy, okay, Brittz?"

Brittany nods. "Okay," she says, smiling grandly before giving Santana an impromptu hug.

***o*O*o***

They found two quarters and that's just enough for them to get two gumballs, but while Brittany's standing next to her new friend, waiting on Santana to turn the dial and get their bubblegums on, the other girl looks like she's thinking about something.

Brittany brushes her hand against Santana's arm. "Whatsa matter?"

Santana shakes her head and smiles, but she reddens a little too, although Brittany doesn't really know what that's about. "I was thinkin'."

"'Bout what?"

"I wanna get somethin' else. Not bubblegum, but it's a surprise and you hafta close your eyes, 'kay? No peekin'."

Brittany nods, instantly excited.

She likes surprises.

Except when it's a surprise cold.

Then she kind of hates them.

Brittany closes her eyes and fights every impulse in her body that says to open them as she hears Santana turn the crank on the candy machines. She hears the little plastic bubble drop and Santana's little 'yes' as she apparently gets what she wants. She hears the crack and hears Santana's little hands tinkering with something before shuffling her feet. The she hears:

"You can open your eyes now, Brittz."

She does and Santana's standing right there, smiling widely, and dangling something plastic and pink in front of her face.

It's a necklace.

"I gots one too," Santana says, holding up an identical necklace. "It's got this little half of heart on it with some letters and yours does too. And you can't read 'em apart but when you put 'em together…" Santana trails off, holding the two charms together for Brittany to see.

Brittany's ears turn red. She's not really doing well in reading yet. "I…I can't…" she stutters out, looking away briefly but Santana understands and apparently doesn't care.

"'S'okay, Brittz," she says, tossing Brittany necklace over her head and doing the same with her own. Santana's not very good with math yet, but her reading is excellent. "It says Best Friends Forever. 'Cause that's what we are. Best friends forever. You get it?"

Brittany grins. "I get it."

***o*O*o***

Santana's mommy and Brittany's mommy are talking and Santana and Brittany are coloring a picture together.

"You gots any pets?"

Brittany nods. "I have a kitty."

Santana makes an 'aww' face. "I want a dog but we can't have one because Daddy's allergic."

Brittany frowns at the new word, taking the green crayon and coloring in the duck's bill. "What's that mean?"

"He gets all sneezy around pets. It's gross," Santana tells her, coloring the grass blue.

Brittany thinks about this. "I get sneezy when my Aunt Greta comes to visit. Am I al-ler-gic to her?"

"Probably," Santana nods.

The doors to the back of the facility open and the big-headed boy comes out with his mom, looking sad and rubbing his arm.

Brittany's eyes widen. "What happened to him?" she asks Santana.

The boy shuffles over to their table and sits down in one of the little chairs while his mommy talks to the nurses.

"Whatsa matter?" Brittany asks him, looking him over worriedly.

"I hadta getta shot," he murmurs, moving his hand to reveal a Batman band-aid on his arm. "It hurted."

"Come on, Finn," his mommy says, waving him over, and big-head boy a.k.a. Finn waves goodbye sadly before following his mom.

Brittany faces Santana with wide eyes. "What if I haveta get a shot, Santana? I'm scared of shots."

"It'll be okay, Brittz. I promise," the smaller girl says, scooting closer to her friend. "It's just a little pinch and then it's all over. And you get a cool band-aid and a sucker and…"

Brittany is not having it and the waterworks are starting up again.

"Don't cry, Brittz," Santana whispers, taking Brittany's hand and cradling it in her own, slightly sticky, one. "What if I go ins with ya'? Then we can be braves together." Santana offers, squeezing her hand. "I'll hold your hand n' everything."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

***o*O*o***

It took some convincing but the girls are allowed a joint doctor's visit.

The nurse takes turns weighing them; Santana comes out slightly heavier on that end.

And taking their height; Brittany's got almost three inches on Santana.

And Brittany giggles every time Santana mimics her going 'ahh' for the doctor.

But when it's time to have some lab work done, Brittany's smile falls right off of her face.

"I don't wanna," Brittany whines, squirming in the chair.

Santana's still in the other room, getting her throat checked out, and the blonde's tears fall in earnest.

"Please, don't," she cries, twisting her arm away from the nurse, who sighs heavily, trying not to openly glare at Brittany's mom who's not being of much help.

"Bumble Bee," her mother pleads with her. "Please. Let the people do what they need to do to make you feel better."

"Brittz?" Santana questions, standing in the doorway of the lab room, tongue depressor still in her mouth. "Are you okay?"

"No," Brittany sobs, reaching out with her free hand for the other girl. "I haveta get a shot and shots hurt."

Santana hurries over to her, the doctor and her mother having just caught up to the adventurous child. "It's okay, Brittz. I said I was gonna hold your hand and that's what I'm gonna do," the tiny girl says, pushing a chair over to the space next to Brittany's.

She plops down next to her and grabs Brittany's free hand, holding on tightly.

The nurse looks over at the doctor, who, in all his years of dealing with children, may possibly be in shock after having witnessed the cutest thing he's ever seen. She arches her brows, silently asking if this is okay.

He just shrugs.

The nurse readies Brittany's arm, cleaning it with an alcohol wipe before twisting the rubber band around it, making the little girl's veins pop. She grabs a test tube and Brittany's eyes widen when she sees the needle for the first time, letting loose a tiny whimper.

Santana squeezes her hand and whispers her name, bringing the girl's attention around to face her.

"Just a tiny pinch and then it's all over, okay?" she whispers, leaning in close to her friend's face.

Brittany nods and bites her lips, a tiny tear rolling down her cheek when she finally feels the pinch, but Santana's quick to wipe it away.

"You're doing it Brittz," Santana beams, still speaking to her quietly. "You're so brave."

Brittany smiles back.

***o*O*o***

After it's over and Brittany has a purple butterfly band-aid taped to the crook of her elbow, the doctor comes over with two identical pieces of candy.

"You two were such big girls today," he beams, handing a lollipop first to Brittany, and then to Santana. "Very good patients."

"What do you say, Santanita?" Santana's mommy prompts, peering from over the good doctor's shoulder.

Santana wrinkles up her nose but still mumbles out a 'thanks'.

Brittany's a lot more appreciative. "Thank you, Sir."

The doctor stops over at the counter to sign their charts and Santana hands Brittany her sucker.

"You should gets two, Brittz. You were extra brave today," she intones.

"But it's yours," Brittany says, looking at the other sucker in her hand. "You was brave too."

Santana looks away. "Not as brave as you," she says, avoiding Brittany's eyes.

The doctor, having overheard the exchange, steps in. "How about if I get two more suckers? Then you can both be the bravest. Is that okay?"

Brittany nods enthusiastically, making the older man chuckle and he sets off on his task.

"See?" Brittany grins, taking her best friend's hand. "We're both the bravest."

***o*O*o***

When it is finally time to leave, neither girl is terribly brave.

And Santana's lip is the first to quiver when Brittany slowly pulls away from their hug.

But luckily (and smartly, if they knew what was good for them) their mommies have exchanged numbers and addresses and Santana and Brittany have years of play dates to look forward to, one already scheduled for whenever these pesky little colds finally ran their courses.

"Bye bye, Brittz," Santana whispers, watching Brittany the entire walk back to her mom's car.

"Bye San," Brittany echoes, smiling and waving even as her eyes tear up.

She climbs into her car seat and sits back while her mommy buckles her up, her fingers brushing over the bandaid on her arm.

"I'm so proud of you Bumble Bee. You were so brave today," her mom says, putting the car in gear.

Brittany just grins, still tracing the band-aid. "The bravest."


	16. The Babysitter

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading and reviewing guys. Shout out to my beta for keeping me on track and stuff. Here's the chapter. Enjoy! Also, can I just say how much I love the new and improved . It's much more user friendly in my opinion. I am going to the concert tonight so I decided I'd drop an update for you guys since I'm going to be having fun and won't be able to share that with you. I know it doesn't compare but, hey, it's better than nothing, right? No? Oh well. I tried.

**Author's Note #2: **Not sure how many of you guys know this but I reply to your reviews via PM so if you've been reviewing and haven't checked your inbox lately, you've got mail.

* * *

><p>"…and I got my brand new kicks, girl, so get excited," Mercedes tells her over the phone.<p>

"What time is the party again?" she asks, still brushing the moisture out of her hair.

"Starts at eight," Mercedes recites. "So that means we should get there about nine. You know me, girl. Gotta keep my man on his toes."

Santana rolls her eyes. Not so much scoffing at the statement as she is making fun of Mercedes, because, as long as she's known them, Puck and Mercedes have been in love.

And not cute love either.

No, they have that all-encompassing, never-ending, 'why would we ever break up' love.

It can be nauseating at times.

"Whatever. You know you're going to be all over him too," Santana deadpans and she can hear Mercedes' grin, even though the other girl mumbles out a 'whatever'.

"Speaking of being all over things, I don't know if you got the memo, but rumor has it Mike Chang wants to be all over you," Mercedes informs her and Santana sits down on her bed, suddenly heavy as she contemplates for the millionth time whether or not to just tell her best friend she's gay.

She finds it amazing that Mercedes hasn't caught on, to be honest – they've known each other since baby-dolls were the shit – and while she isn't waving her freak flag, Santana's not exactly subtle about her obvious attraction to girls.

Still, outright telling the other girl is not something Santana can seem to make herself do, so she settles for avoiding double-dates, blind dates and the countless boys Mercedes' tosses her way because she hates to see Santana alone.

Because, as Mercedes puts it, she's way too hot to be sitting on the sidelines. She's the M.B.B.

Most Baddest Bitch.

"I don't know, 'Cedes," she sighs, playing with her bedspread. "Chang's not really my type."

"Nuh uh, Missy," Mercedes chides. "Don't try that 'type' thing with me. That boy is hella fine and you know, I'm not even sure you have a type."

Oh she has a type.

Her type just typically comes with less facial hair and more boobs.

"Mercedes," she says seriously, finally gathering her nerve. "I have to tell you something."

"What?" Mercedes asks, sounding like she's further away from the phone suddenly. "Ooh, San, can I call you back? Puck's on the line."

Santana's shoulders drop, but she's relieved and she kinda hates that. "Okay."

"Cool. Love ya biatch. Bye."

Santana looks at her phone and hits the end button, shaking it off before going back to getting ready for the night.

***o*O*o***

Her mother's voice catches her just as she's walking out the door. "Santana," the woman says, putting on her coat. "¿A dónde vas?"

"Puck's having a party and me and Mercedes were gonna go," she answers, looking at her mother quizzically, especially when her father comes downstairs, wearing a suit. "Where are you going?"

"Don't you remember?" her father asks, throwing on his trench coat. "Tonight is the Hudson-Hummel engagement party."

"Oh," Santana says, nodding slightly. "Cool," she says, opening the door.

"Un momento, por favor, Santana," he father says sternly. "If we are going out then you can't. We didn't call a sitter because you said you'd be available."

"That was before Lilliana decided to become a little brat. Besides, Mama, this is like, the biggest party of the year," Santana informs them, but they don't bat an eye.

"Santana," her mother warns, making last minute adjustments to her hair. "You're staying home to watch your little sister and that's final."

"Look, if I find and pay for a sitter, can I please go to this party? Por favor, Papa?" she pleads, giving him her best pout.

"No sé, Santanita. It's pretty late and short notice for a sitter. You promise to stay with your sister if you can't find one?"

Santana nods enthusiastically.

"Very well," the man chuckles, sharing a look with his wife. "Call us before you leave if you do. Good night and be safe," he adds, kissing her on the forehead.

"'Night Papa, 'night Mama," she adds, hugging the older woman goodbye.

***o*O*o***

Forty-five minutes and fifty-two seconds later, she still hasn't gone anywhere.

Lilliana, of course, won't go to sleep and now Santana is contemplating shipping her little sister – whom she once treasured dearly – back to God with a note to keep her 'precious little gifts' to Herself..

"Hey, Tanny! Tanny!" the little girl cries out, her voice seriously lacking any shred of weariness. "Tanny! Tanny! Tanny!"

"What?" Santana yells, finally looking over at the girl tugging on her arm.

"Hi," Lilliana deadpans, breaking down into high-pitched giggles shortly after.

Santana just rolls her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

Where's the damn sitter?

Just as she's thinking about how much she should dilute adult Nyquil before giving it to a child, the doorbell rings, and Santana's sends up a quick prayer to the Heavens.

She seriously didn't want to have to explain overdosing her sister to her parents.

But when she pulls the door handle aside, her shoulders droop magnificently.

"C'mon girl, we gots to go," Mercedes says, standing impatiently on her doorstep.

"I'm still waiting on the sitter to get here," Santana tells her and tries to tug the other girl inside but Mercedes doesn't budge.

"Is… she in there?" Mercedes asks, nodding into the house, gulping slightly.

"Yeah," Santana informs her, recognizing Mercedes' trepidation immediately.

Last time Mercedes got within two feet of Lilliana, she had to cut a huge clump of hair out.

Note to the masses: Silly Putty is not a hair accessory.

"Don't worry, though. She's actually pretty well-behaved tonight," Santana says, peering back into the now vacant living room.

"Hi," Lilliana says, suddenly standing behind Mercedes, somehow having walked out the back door and around the house.

Mercedes jumps about a foot in the air, clamoring to get behind Santana and making the sign of the cross with her fingers. "Stay back, you little hellion."

"Well, that's no way to speak to children."

Little Lilliana grins devilishly and rushes for Mercedes again, causing the older girl to shriek, but before she gets too far, two lithe, strong arms scoop her right up, hugging her against a torso.

"San," Mercedes asks, clutching the Latina's arm. "Who that be?"

And Santana would respond, but she's having what is referred to as a "moment of clarity".

As in, if she didn't clearly see how gay she was before, she certainly does now because wow.

"Wow."

"Uh…what?" Mercedes questions, looking at her friend quizzically.

Oops.

Did she say that out loud?

She must have because the girl on her doorstep, still clutching a squealing Lilliana, grins and Santana feels her cheeks warm up as she tries to think fast.

"I said, uh, ow? Yeah, ow! You're clutching my arm too tight," she lies, convincingly enough for Mercedes, but apparently not enough for the girl at her door, who smirks.

"The agency sent me over," she finally says, explaining her presence. "I'm the baby-sitter. Brittany."

***o*O*o***

"Um, _hello_. Earth to Santana? What's your problem, girl?"

Mercedes has been prattling nonstop on the drive over to Puck's place but Santana's mind keeps drifting back to her house where the prettiest girl she has ever seen is probably getting the workout of her life chasing her little sister all over creation.

Santana can just picture it now. She is probably all sweaty and flushed and her chest is probably heaving and…man, she's getting a little turned on.

She shifts subtly in her seat. "I don't have a problem."

"So, you're just being all quiet for no reason at all."

"Maybe I just don't want to hear you go on and on about Puck all night long," Santana snaps, her frustration a bit misguided. "Especially considering I'm going to have to spend the rest of the night watching you and him dance around each other until you finally abandon me to go take off and make-out and stuff in some dark, deserted room."

Mercedes looks over at her friend as they're driving and yes, Santana can be a bitch at the best of times, but there is something obviously wrong with the girl right now and, if she was betting woman, she'd put the house on it having absolutely nothing to do with her and Puck.

She pulls over to the side of the road, putting the car in park but keeping the engine going. "I told you that Mike's going to be there."

Santana rolls her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with her hand, sinking lower into her seat. "I don't care about Mike fucking Chang, alright, 'Cedes. I just…I don't," she grumbles out, sighing deeply afterward. Her breath hitches and Mercedes recognizes that sound all too well.

Santana's about to start crying.

"Hey, Mama," Mercedes says gently, reaching out a hand to tug on her friend's shoulder, pulling her over. "Don't cry, girl. Just tell me what's wrong."

Santana buries her face in her hands, leaning onto Mercedes' shoulder, the armrest between the seats cutting uncomfortably into her side. "Nothing's wrong," she mutters.

Mercedes scoffs. "You just snapped at me and you're crying. Something's wrong."

At first Mercedes doesn't think she's going to give but then Santana takes a deep breath, her next words coming out unbelievably quietly. "You're my best friend, right Mercedes?"

"Of course. What a stupid question."

"And you'd stay my best friend, right? Even if I maybe told you something that you didn't want to hear?"

Mercedes doesn't answer.

"'Cedes?" Santana's voice questions timidly.

"Did you kill somebody?"

Santana springs up. "What? No."

Mercedes breathes a sigh of relief, grinning coyly. "Well, then, yeah. I'm your best friend through anything. Aiding in abetting is where we reach an impasse."

Santana's smile is wry. "Nice to know where the line is."

Mercedes shrugs cutely and waits patiently for Santana to go on.

"Remember when I was so bummed at the end of 2008 and you couldn't figure out what it was. Well, there was this show on TV that I loved and it got cancelled," Santana says, watching the confusion etch across Mercedes' face. "It was called _South of Nowhere_."

"O…kay…."

"And you know how I'm always turning down guys' offers for dates-"

"Yeah," Mercedes nods, still not following. "You're super selective."

Santana rolls her eyes. "And you know how I've got this extensive collection of artists in my CD collection all grouped together like, The Murmurs, Tegan and Sara, Melissa Etheridge, the Indigo Girls."

"Oh my God, yes," Mercedes gasps suddenly. "I honestly don't know how you and Puck don't get along. You both like that weird ass music."

"For the love of-" Santana murmurs, sick of her friend missing the point. "I'm gay, Mercedes. I'm gay. I like girls. I want to kiss them and touch their boobs. I. Am. Gay."

Mercedes' jaw drops and she's quiet for a few seconds and Santana can feel her heart beating loudly, surprised the sound of it isn't rocking the car.

Slowly but surely Mercedes puts the car in drive and continues their drive to Puck's house, never saying a word.

"Mercedes?" Santana questions tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

A beat.

"Well?"

"Well, what, Santana?"

The girl's momentarily thwarted by the question. "Don't you want to say anything?"

"There's nothing to say," Mercedes calmly states, turning onto Puck's block. His house is the only one lit up, the shadows dancing in the windows the only sign of the happenings inside.

For some reason, this pisses Santana off. Well, actually, Mercedes' non-reaction is scaring her and, in true Santana form, when she gets scared, she gets mad. "Fine," she huffs, unbuckling her seatbelt and hopping out of the car before Mercedes even parks.

***o*O*o***

She's halfway down the block before Mercedes catches up to her.

And she probably wouldn't have if it wasn't for Santana's stupid blurred vision because of the stupid crying she was doing because she'd just stupidly come out to her best friend and more than likely ruined their friendship.

"Will you slow down?" Mercedes calls out.

Santana just presses onward, the night wind whipping her hair about.

"Santana?"

"What?" she asks, not turning around. "What do you want? You want me to stand here while you sit in silence? Or, I know, you want to tell me that you don't want to be my friend anymore. Is that it? Because if it is, you can save it. I don't need it and I don't need you," she says brokenly, her voice breaking.

"Are you done?" Mercedes asks her, matching Santana step for step now. "I'm not going to not be your friend, okay. That's stupid. You've been my best friend since before we had boobs and that's not going to change because you like chicks, okay? I was just kind of thrown. You caught me off-guard. Give me _some_ credit here, San."

"You mean it?" Santana asks hopefully, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

"Of course I mean it. We be's the besties above the resties, right?" Mercedes says, holding up her fist for a bump which Santana gives.

"Yeah," Santana says shakily, a small smile on her face.

"Now, come on. Let's get back to the party. I'll run interference on Mike and you can break down your 'type' to me, because I'm sure you have one. But it'd better not be in the same stratosphere of Quinn Fabray. I will literally kick your ass if that's the case."

"Um, actually. I think I'm gonna just go back home," the Latina says slowly, widening her eyes to signal.

It takes Mercedes a moment but she's finally able to read between the lines. "_Oh_," she says, smiling widely. "Well, good luck with that. You want a ride?"

Santana shakes her head. "I'm just going to walk."

***o*O*o***

Santana almost chickened out about four times and actually made it up to Puck's door before she decides to forge ahead with the night's hastily made plans.

Well, plan.

The idea is to get back home, open the door, pay the baby sitter and …well, that's as far as the plan goes.

She has no idea how she's going to get Brittany to stay, or how to get Brittany to talk to her, or even how to talk to Brittany.

Before she'd left for the party she'd basically managed to grunt at the girl like a cavewoman.

She had better think of something soon though because it's only a matter of time before Brittany notices her standing on the door-

"Did you forget how to come in?"

-step.

"Uh…"

"That happened to me once and I stood on the stoop for about two hours before my mom came home from work," Brittany says, smiling brightly. "Sometimes I forget whether or not to turn the key backwards or forwards into the lock and I can't get in. It's really frustrating."

Santana can't look away. "Um…"

"It's not nice to stare," Brittany grins, bowing her head slightly and peeking up at Santana through her eyelashes.

Santana finally tears her gaze away from the girl, her cheeks burning bright red. She bites her lip. "Where's Lily?"

"She's asleep," Brittany informs her, pulling her inside the house and closing the door behind them. "Knocked out actually."

_That _breaks Santana out of her stupor. "She's _sleeping_? Oh my God, what did you do?"

Brittany looks at her blankly. "Nothing. She just passed out like ten minutes after you left. I let her run around the couch a couple dozen times and she just fell asleep. I hope that's okay," she says, worry creasing her features at Santana's continued awe.

"Yes, it's okay," Santana says, a half-disbelieving laugh tumbling out of her mouth. "She hasn't gone to bed before eleven in…ever. You're some kind of a genius babysitter, Brittany."

Brittany frowns. "Are you being satanic?"

Santana frowns. "Satan…oh, do you mean 'sarcastic'?"

"That's what I said."

"You said-" Santana cuts herself off, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. I was being serious. Anyone who gets my little sister to sleep at an appropriate hour is a total genius."

Brittany beams, her cheeks flushing as she rocks back on her heels. "Oh, well, thank you."

"Yeah," Santana says, caught up in staring again. She should really cut that out.

"So, are your parents going to pay me or…"

"Right." Santana snaps to attention, digging around in her pocket. She produces the bills and thrusts them toward Brittany, her hand trembling slightly as she holds them out.

Brittany takes the money, her fingertips brushing against Santana's fingers slyly. "Thanks," she grins, tucking it away. "Well, I should probably leave now."

Santana panics, racking her mind for anything, absolutely anything, that would make Brittany stay. "Wait!" she ends up shouting out, and the blonde's eyes widen at the sound.

So, maybe she was a little loud.

"What?"

"Um, you can't go…yet…because," _Come on. _Think_ Santana._ "…because…because it's raining."

_Raining?_

"Raining?" Brittany looks at her, then at the window. The curtains are drawn so she can't see outside but even Santana can see the skepticism painted on the blonde's face. "But, you just came from outside. And you're not wet."

Santana's kicking herself on the inside. "That's because it just started. Like, right now," she lies, hoping against hope that the babysitter will just take her word for it.

Brittany – while not winning any awards in the IQ Olympics – is not taking this one sitting down. She walks over to the door and pulls it open, peering into the darkness.

Darkness, that is, until a streak of lightning momentarily brightens the sky, rumbling thunder following immediately.

Then the blonde slams the door…HARD.

"It _is_ raining. I'd better call my mom and dad," she says, pulling out a cell phone to do just that.

Santana just breathes a sigh of relief, leaning back against the nearest vertical surface and closing her eyes.

Someone up there loves her.

***o*O*o***

They're watching a movie.

Santana's decision of course, prompted by the revelation that while ...while Brittany loves the rain, lightningand rainbows, she abhors thunder; and after watching the poor girl jump for the fifteenth time, she decides to spare her a little internal misery and put on a distracting movie.

Distracting for Brittany only – who, of course, got to pick out the movie – because all the Latina can focus on is how close the other girl is sitting to her on the couch. How if she wanted to – and could work up the nerve to – she could walk her fingers right over to where Brittany's hand lays prone next to her hip, and tangle them together just to see how well they fit.

She thinks they'd fit perfectly.

"I love this movie. Dory is a riot," Brittany chuckles, shifting again, and now her hand is brushing Santana's thigh and the Latina may be having a myocardial infarction. The blonde shifts again, this time turning away from the movie to observe Santana. "Are you okay?"

Santana shakes her head. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to throw up, or like someone has your favorite doll and is about to rip its head off." Brittany frowns for a moment. "My big brother did that once and I kicked him in the shin," she says proudly, smiling a little.

Santana chuckles but she's still having a hard time breathing. "I'm okay…just…"

"Nervous," Brittany supplies and Santana does a double-take.

Come again.

"What?"

Brittany smiles and something about it puts Santana a little at ease. "You're nervous," she repeats, turning her body to face the other girl and shuffling closer, dropping a hand onto Santana's lap. "You're nervous because you like me. And, you'd like to get to know me. And, I think you want to kiss me, too."

Santana's face is on fire. She's sure of it. Her ears are letting out steam she's so red, but Brittany's still grinning at her, all sparkling white teeth and smooth lips and Santana is screwed to her place on the couch, even though part of her wants to clamor back inside the safety of her 'closet'.

"Brittany," she breathes out, her fingers tightening imperceptibly where they are grasping her knees.

"I'll kiss you back if you do," the blonde says simply, her eyes darting back and forth between Santana's lips and Santana's eyes.

Santana doesn't do it. At least not at first.

She's fairly certain that her body is acting of its own volition when it surges forward and crashes her lips against the blonde's.

One thing's for sure, though.

She's never going back in that closet again.


	17. The Dentist

Disclaimer: Don't own. Just borrowing. Author's Note: So, I'm updating this from my phone so I have no idea what the formatting is going to look like. Aplogies in advance. Also, apologizing for this being so short. Blame my muddled mind, Glee Live!, and my other life. The reason I am updating this from my phone in the first place is because the Midwest got hit by some crazy ass storm and I've been without power for 33 hours now. I do not like it. Anyways, I should have another up before the weekend is done to make up for this. Thanks for reading and reviewing you guys. Thanks to my Beta for looking over these things again. And new readers, don't be strangers. *o*O*o*

"Are we late?" Brittany asks, rushing to join Mike in the elevator.

"Very," he says, straightening up his tie.

"What if I just 'blinked' us to the conference room? You know, like, _I Dream of Jeannie_. Do you think she'd notice?"

"She" is their bitch of a boss.

"Um, fairly certain she'd recognize two empty chairs being suddenly filled, Britt."

Brittany pouts. "That's too bad. That would be a really awesome super power." She brightens. "Or I could control water like Aqua Man. That would be cool."

Mike shrugs. "I've always kinda dug Wolverine."

Brittany gives him the once-over. "You could totally rock a leather body-suit."

Mike chuckles loudly.

"My mouth still tastes like burrito," Brittany mumbles, just as the elevator door open, the conference room looming in the distance.

"Oh," Mike says, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a few peppermint candies as they hurry down the corridor. "Here."

"Awesome," Brittany murmurs, popping the candy into her mouth before bravely pulling open the door, five pairs of eyes falling on them immediately.

"Ms. Pierce. Mr. Chang. So nice of you to join us this afternoon," Quinn Fabray, a.k.a. the bitch boss, says from the front of the room. Note: this is not to be confused with boss's bitch – those are two totally different things. "And here I was positively fretting; thinking you two had made other plans."

"No," Brittany answers, taking a seat next to Kurt Hummel – a smirking Kurt Hummel. "We're just late."

"Brittany," Mike hisses over everyone else's stifled laughter.

"What?" Brittany asks innocently.

"At any rate, please do not make your tendency for tardiness a routine."

Brittany frowns. "I don't know what that means."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Don't be late again."

***o*O*o***

In "hi" sight – high sight? Hindsight? She doesn't really get that word – the situation was pretty much _all_ Mike's fault.

After all, it was Mike who needed the promotion – new baby on the way and all – and volunteered the two of them for the new marketing team, which is why they even were at the meeting in the first place.

And then it was Mike who gave her the candy.

And, _and_, it was Mike who midway through the meeting sent her a text of Quinn Fabray's head photoshopped onto a picture of her cat with the caption "meow, meow, meow, meow"; and okay, maybe it wasn't all that funny but when she snickered quietly and her bottom right wisdom tooth met the hard jagged edge of a nearly dissolved peppermint candy, Brittany howled…in pain.

"Crap, Britt," Mike says, tensing against the pain in his hand.

Her head lolls back again.

"I get that you're blaming me for this tooth thing, but I need my fingers."

"But you're not a lesbian," Brittany muffles out, her free hand cupping her cheek.

"Well, not in the…literal sense," Mike cracks sagely and Brittany laughs begrudgingly.

"Brittany Pierce?"

Brittany squints through the pain to see the man rolling up in a wheelchair, smiling like he's just won a million dollars.

She could punch him and justifiably get away with it she supposes, but the victory would be empty.

"Brittany?" he asks again.

"Britt's not big on talking right now, guy," Mike says, eyes tilted in the 'get the hint' kind of way.

"Right," the other guy says, adjusting his glasses. "Well, my name's Artie. And I understand you're having a little tooth trouble."

Brittany scoffs.

If he keeps up the enthusiasm, she is _going_ to hit him.

"Right. Well, we'll just run a few X-rays and then the doctor will see you."

***o*O*o***

"Hi there," a voice chirps cheerfully.

Brittany's not exactly sure what drug these people are on but could someone please give her some?

The blonde just moans in greeting and a tiny brunette in the gold-star patterned nurse's uniform bounces around the room, touching this and prepping that and overall making Brittany very dizzy.

If she weren't already sitting down, she'd need to.

She presses a button and Brittany's suddenly sitting straight up, a lead vest already being fitted over her shoulders.

"Okay, Ms. Pierce – Is it okay if I call you Brittany? – we're going to take some dental scans, okay? So the doctor will know what she's working with."

Brittany opens her mouth as the nurse gently slips in the mouth guards.

She tries to ask who the dentist is but all she manages is a vague mumble that sounds a lot like the word 'ass' being spoken by a person with a mouth full of marbles.

It doesn't matter any way. Nurse Rachel – her uniform says – doesn't seem to care. "Aww, thank you," the woman says, grinning while operating the machine. "I have been doing Pilates."

"Wa pa-wa-ees?" Brittany asks, her mouth full of foam.

"Never you mind," the nurse grins, pressing a button. "Now, smile for the camera."

***o*O*o***

Her stomach finally unknots when she's in the dentist's chair, comforted by the thought that she'll soon be put out of her misery.

She's got on the little paper bib and she's clenching her mouth shut, not wanting any air to get inside and wreak any more havoc.

She doesn't even know this dentist, but with her excellent dental plan she can go wherever, whenever and this was the closest place she could get an appointment.

Brittany relaxes back into the chair and almost dozes off before the click-clack of heels bring her right back, her eyes snapping open just in time to catch those of her dentist.

Brittany's not so sleepy anymore.

"Hi, there," the woman greets, stepping further into the room. "My name is Dr. Lopez and I'll be examining you this evening…" the dentists checks the paperwork in her hands. "…Brittany?"

Brittany nods, feeling a little foolish for doing so, but she doesn't want to risk talking and, well, howling in pain.

That'd make a horrible first impression and, with this particular dentist, she wants to make a good one.

"Okay then," the woman smiles, pulling over a stool to sit to the side of Brittany. "I looked over your X-ray and it looks like we're going to have to extract that tooth. It's cracked right down the middle and is pinching a nerve. That's why you're having so much discomfort."

The dentist pulls on some latex gloves and drops her mask over her face, her eyes looking at Brittany warmly. She grabs the little mirror and the pick and suddenly the chair is being lowered and leveled so that pretty soon, Brittany's lying nearly horizontal. "Let me take a closer look at what's going on here, Brittany, and then we can see what we can do, okay?"

Brittany nods, opening up wide, but as soon as the woman nears her mouth with the dental tools, her jaw slams shut.

Brittany blushes.

The dentist tilts her head in confusion. "Um, kind of wasn't done yet," she said, voice a tad muffled behind the surgical mask.

Brittany rolls her eyes at herself and she detects the other woman's eyes crinkling at the corners. Brittany steadies her breathing and cracks her mouth open again…

…Only to close it when Dr. Lopez draws near again.

The dentist sits back, dropping the tools back onto her sterile surgical tray. "Let me guess: Not a big fan of the dentist?"

Brittany flushes deeply and the doctor's throaty chuckle floats around the room. "You don't have to be afraid. I won't hurt you," the woman says softly, peering deeply into the blonde's eyes, and Brittany thinks that she's never seen such expressive eyes before.

You can read the woman as clear as day, and Brittany knows at once she'd never hurt her.

It's the freaking tools she's worried about.

Dr. Lopez forgoes the tools for her next attempt, holding Brittany's chin still with one hand and using the other to guide a mirror along the outside of her mouth, angling it to get a good view. Brittany is doing pretty well this time but when the doctor inches the little mirrored instrument in further, Brittany's jaw clamps closed, and the doctor almost loses a finger in the process.

The woman sighs, sitting back again. "Allergic to any drugs?"

***o*O*o***

"Just take deep even breaths, okay?"

Brittany pulls the nose mask away momentarily. "I don't think this is going to work. Last time they tried anastasia on me, I just went to sleep."

"Well, that's generally the point of a local _anesthetic_, Ms. Pierce," Nurse Rachel says, placing shiny tools on the doctor's tray. "We're not putting you under though. Dr. Lopez is just giving you nitrous oxide."

"What's that?" Brittany asks, feeling a little giddy, her eyes shining.

"It's a feel good gas," Dr. Lopez informs her, her own mask pulled down momentarily. "To put you at ease about the procedure."

Brittany smiles loopily, the pain in her tooth a dull throb suddenly. "Well, alright."

Dr. Lopez smiles warmly, sharing a look with the nurse. "I'd say we're good to go."

***o*O*o***

Two shots of Novocain and some nitrous later, Brittany is blissfully calm, relaxed in the chair while Dr. Lopez works.

The lights in the room are amazing and so are the dentist's eyes. It's like they're little golden brown prisms, just absorbing and reflecting light.

She's staring.

Dr. Lopez looks up from where she's cleaning Brittany's teeth, catching the blonde's eye. "Are you okay?"

Brittany goes to nod, then remembers she's not supposed to move. She blinks twice.

"You sure?" the doctor questions again.

Two blinks.

"Okay," the doctor says, and Nurse Rachel moves the vacuum thingy around her mouth.

She remembers the nurse saying the technical term for it, but she's too wrapped up in Dr. Lopez's eyes to try to remember. "Now, you're going to feel a little pressure. It won't hurt, but it will feel weird for a little bit. If it gets to be too much just blink once, okay, and I'll stop."

Brittany blinks twice again and Nurse Rachel hands the dentist the scariest looking things Brittany's ever seen in her life.

They look like tweezers on steroids.

Her eyes widen noticeably and all the feel-good gas in the world can't stop her heart rate from picking up.

"Remember," Dr. Lopez says calmly, drawing her attention back to her face. "Just a little pressure."

The pressure feels a lot like Dr. Lopez is trying to force her jaw out of her face, and Brittany cringes when she hears the tell-tale signs of her tooth grinding out of place, but before she can feel completely uncomfortable, it's over and the doctor drops her tooth, rather unceremoniously, into a tin tray.

"All done," the dentist intones, sitting back and using the water pick to rinse away some of the blood. "Spit," she says, slowly bringing Brittany's chair back up, and Brittany's mouth can barely contain the water, the crimson tinted liquid sloshing down the porcelain basin.

"Congratulations, Brittany," the woman says, pulling down her mask to bestow a glittering smile on the woman. "You're officially down one wisdom tooth."

Brittany smiles back – and with a numb lower lip and half a jaw it's really a sight to behold.

"How's it feel?" the doctor goes on to ask.

"Awesome."

***o*O*o***

With the gauze still firmly affixed to the hole in her gum line, Brittany stands at the receptionist's desk, waiting on her prescriptions for pain medications.

The feel-good feeling from the gas has worn off, but she still feels kind of floaty; although, that might have a lot to do with the conversation she's overhearing.

"Rachel, please drop this."

"But you didn't see the way she was looking at you! I did. I say you go for it."

There's a brief moment of hesitation and Brittany actually feels her heart flutter before the doctor speaks up again.

"No. No. It's completely unprofessional. I mean, who hits on their patients? It's wrong." A beat. "And…_and_ she's probably not even gay. We haven't even jumped that hurdle yet."

"Please," Rachel dismisses easily. "Speak for yourself. In spite of my obvious heterosexuality, I have way better gaydar than you and my meter's a-singing, missy."

"I'm not going to do it, so just…let it go, Rachel." The doctor says.

Before Brittany can register her disappointment though, the doctor suddenly appears in front of her, clearly surprised to see Brittany right there.

"Oh…Ms….Brittany. I thought...I didn't…"

Is it possible for anything to be cuter than a flustered dentist in a lab coat?

Maybe a flustered dentist in a lab coat holding a puppy.

"What Dr. Lopez means to say…" Rachel helpfully supplies, snatching the prescriptions out of the other woman's grip. "…is that she hopes that you'll consider using her services more often."

Dr. Lopez smiles tightly, not so subtly glaring at Rachel.

"Definitely," Brittany mutters out with a mouth full of cotton, or at least that's what it feels like. She takes a look around the waiting room, but Mike's engrossed in some muscle car magazine so she has a few minutes.

"Actually, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation you two were having and, I mean, is it still unethical if I ask the doctor out? Or is it one of those chicken or the egg deals? I mean, we're never gonna know what came first."

Nurse Rachel beams, a smug look flirting across her face.

The doctor? She looks a little skeptical. "You want to go out? With me?"

Brittany nods, shrugging her shoulders even though she looks hopeful. "If you're okay with that."

It turns out Dr. Santana Lopez is very okay with that.


	18. Je T'aime

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Okay, so apparently my body and I are at odds, because it's rebelling against this wedding like nobody's business. I am fighting off a sinus infection like a beast in hopes that I won't look like a bloated codfish on my wedding day. Not that I particularly care, but my bride-to-be will more than likely flip her proverbial shit. That being said, massive bouts of not-being-able-to-breathe-insomnia have led to impromptu writing which leads to this update so, yay? No. Anyways, go Dallas! All NBA teams ending in "avs" are totally celebrating. That's all I'll say about that. Oh, and I'm sorry for not replying to reviews for the last chapter. I'm totally playing the "I'm sick" card for that though. Thanks for reading and reviewing guys. Warms my fanfic writing heart.

**Author's Note#2: **Special thanks to Darkangelike for helping me with the French on this. And as always, an extension of gratitude to my beta.

* * *

><p>Santana did not feel like going to the door and there was nothing anybody else could do to make her.<p>

So the knocking continues she just groans and rolls over in bed, throwing her pillow over her head to drown out the noise.

"Alright, Lopez. You've wallowed in sorrow long enough. Get up."

It sounds like Puck.

And he sounds like he's in her bedroom.

She pops her head up, peeking out from between the covers and lo and behold, her mohawked buddy is standing in the middle of her room, trying to figure out where it's safe to step.

"Jesus, man. Did that Jessie chick do all the cleaning or what?"

Santana sits up and gives him the best glare of her life. "Have you forgotten about my deadly accurate aim?"

Puck rolls his eyes grandly. "No. I remember your stellar softball career. Come to think about it, how come it took you so long to figure out you liked chicks, dude? You're such a lezzie." He grins.

Santana throws an unused pillow at him. "What. Do. You. Want. Puckerman?"

"First, I want you out of that bed. Have you even showered?" he comments, kicking a pizza box and a few articles of stray clothing around. "Then I want you to get dressed and do something to that crow's nest you call hair. I can_not_ be seen in public with you looking like that. And then, get in my car, because we're going cruising for some chicas tonight."

"First of all," Santana grumbles, flopping back down onto her bed and hugging her pillow close. "I _have _showered, thank you very much."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"And second of all, I'm not getting in that death trap of a thing you have the nerve to call a car. It might implode or something. Which, I don't know, being blown to bits might be an improvement on my life right now."

"San-" Puck interrupts, shuffling closer.

"No. No. I'm fine. Just leave me alone." Her muffled voice floats from under the covers.

Puck's not having any of that though and he snatches her blankets away, Santana shrieking madly and scrambling to cover up.

She doesn't really sleep in much.

"Damn," Puck smirks. "I keep forgetting how hot you are? You sure you're into girls? Because if not we can-"

"Finish that sentence and I swear I will end you," she warns, finger raised.

Puck pushes her hand down, reaching next to her pillow for an overturned picture frame. "You've got to let her go, San."

The Latina closes her eyes slowly, her hand absently reaching for her gold necklace, fingering the two simple bands hanging off of them. "I am, okay? It's hard."

Puck nods, swallowing tightly and putting the picture frame on her nightstand, Santana's eyes glancing over at the image of her smiling face pressed close to her fiancée's, well, ex-fiancée. "I know."

"If I go out with you, will you leave me alone?"

"I'll let you eat Oreos and stale pizza for two days straight," he beams, tapping his chest with a closed fist. "But don't come whining to me when you get all fat and shit."

***o*O*o***

Brittany was waiting on the elevator, casually checking her wrist watch when she felt something ram into her legs just hard enough to send her tumbling backwards into a soft lap and waiting embrace.

"Why, Miss Pierce, I do declare you've fallen for me," Artie says with a faux-southern accent.

Brittany giggles, letting him twirl her around in his chair.

"I don't think is appropriate work place behavior, Artie."

"Now see," Artie starts, waving his hand in that ghetto speak. "Normally I'd agree with you but since there's like zero chance of us getting it on and poppin', I wouldn't worry."

Brittany gets back up, moving behind him to push him into elevator that's just arrived. "So," she says, leaning down to his ear. "What do you think 'the big meeting' is about?"

Artie shrugs, oblivious to the longing look Brittany is sending his way. "Probably just wants someone to pick up her dry-cleaning. Do her chores. She's a hard ass but she's a lazy hard ass."

The elevator dings and Artie screws on his 'happy' smile before exiting, cringing immediately after because-

"Abrams!"

Lauren Zizes storms out of her office, still frantically clicking on her Blackberry. "You're late!"

Artie's jaw drops. "We're twenty minutes early," he says, shooting a worried look to Brittany, who looks afraid. Lauren, on a good day, is a fire-breathing dragon. And on the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year, she can give Hitler himself a pretty decent run for his money.

"And therefore ten minutes late," Lauren says quietly, squeezing her stress ball. "Because of your incompetence, I will not be needing your assistance for the enormously important task that needs attending."

Artie waits until she looks away to roll his eyes. Not like he wanted to go on another grocery run, anyway.

"So, Brittany, you lucked out. I'll be needing you to go pick up my new fall wardrobe," the woman continues, grabbing a couple of papers and handing them to the mute blonde.

Brittany looks over the itinerary, her eyes tripping over flight times and addresses and...wait, what?

"Paris?" Brittany asks, her eyebrows crooked.

"Yeah," Lauren dismisses easily, sitting down on an office chair. "There's this designer there that makes the best plus size clothes and I want to look all sexilicious. Problem is, I loathe the French more than I loathe nerdy guys in wheelchairs that wear suspenders."

Artie frowns.

"So, pack up, Blondie. You're going to Paris."

Brittany leans down to Artie's ear when their boss gets distracted by an email. "But I don't speak Texan."

***o*O*o***

Puck holds onto her shoulders as he pushes her into the raucous backyard. "Hey, you guys. Look who I found."

A cheer goes up and Santana turns a little sheepish, moving to punch Puck in his arm.

"Heyyy," Quinn says, draping her arms around her. "You made it."

She's three sheets to the wind and Santana finds herself trying not to laugh when it becomes obvious that Quinn's not planning on letting go anytime soon.

"Are you okay?" the blonde murmurs, Santana's shoulders tensing immediately.

"I'm fine," she says quietly, pulling away.

She looks beyond Quinn's shoulders where Sam is busy at the grill, and he raises his beer bottle in greeting.

"Well of course you are," Quinn giggles, bumping her hip against Santana's. "But I was talking about the whole Jessie thing."

"I know you were," Santana says, sighing a little. "And I really, really don't want to talk about that. At all. I just...I just want to forget for a while."

"Well..." Quinn says, grabbing the beer Puck's suddenly holding out to her. "We can totes do that."

A few short hours later, Santana is sitting in front of the fire-pit, drunk and gazing mournfully at her paired up friends: Sam and Quinn, Puck and Rachel, hell, even Finn's found someone who can overlook his incredibly oafish ways in Mercedes.

It seems she's the only one of her friends who is destined to spend eternity alone.

She reaches into her back pocket and takes out the folded envelope, the plane tickets inside a startling reminder of the fact that the future she'd imagined for herself isn't going to happen. .

It's only fitting that she let that dream go up in flames.

Puck pulls his face off of Rachel's when he hears the first rip. "What are you doing?"

Santana rips the break-up letter from Jessie in half again before tossing it to the blaze. "I'm purging," she grumbles.

"But those look like plane tickets," he grunts out, the tiny brunette still attached to his neck.

"They are," she says, tossing them on as well. Or attempting to because Puck knocks Rachel on her ass diving across the fire pit and knocking over four half-filled beers in a successful attempt to save them.

She stares down at him, bewildered. "The hell is your problem?"

"Ditto!" Finn yells, lap now soaking wet.

"The hell is yours?" Puck hollers back, shaking the tickets and brushing off the little scorch marks. "These are tickets to Paris. _Paris_ San. I'm not the romantic, sissified type but even _I_ know that you don't burn up tickets to Paris."

Quinn's caught up now. "You were burning up your honeymoon tickets?" She screeches in disbelief. "I'm all for moving on and stuff but, come on girl, you don't just throw that away. It's Paris, San."

Puck holds out a hand to Quinn. "Thank you."

Santana crosses her arms against herself, suddenly feeling very cold. "Well I don't want to go. Going will just remind me of everything I don't have anymore and I can't...I just can't you guys."

"Or you can go and suck up everything that city has to offer," Rachel says in her usually upbeat way. "I'm sorry Santana, but maybe this getaway is exactly what you need. A break from everything here and a fresh start somewhere new. If only for a little while."

"Hot Jew #2 is right," Puck says, grinning. "Cash in that other ticket and go all Loca Lopez in la France. It'll be good for you."

***o*O*o***

"He's gonna hate me now," Brittany frowns, tossing another t-shirt into her suitcase.

"Brittany," Tina sighs, trying to figure out how exactly to word this. "There's...there's something you ought to know about Artie."

Brittany stops moving around, worrying her bottom lip. "What?"

She wasn't really a bad person and she didn't want to be the bearer of bad news but Brittany should know. It's remarkable she didn't already know. "Brittany, Artie's gay."

Brittany smiles. "Oh, I already knew that."

Tina breathes a sigh of relief. "Well, okay. Good."

"But why won't he go out with me?"

"Huh?" Tina is confused. "Brittany, he's gay."

"That means he's happy, right?"

Tina blanches. "What?"

"Yeah, gay means happy. Like in that song _The Brady Bunch_ does..." She trails off, noticing the confused look on Tina's face. "Right?"

Yeah. No.

***o*O*o***

She goes.

Honestly, it was six against one so she never really stood a chance but Santana gives herself a lot of credit for putting up one hell of a fight.

In the end, it really doesn't matter though. She has a week to spend in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and she has no social obligations, no one of romantic interest to return home to.

If the city wins her over she could honestly stay there forever.

***o*O*o***

So, Brittany was a little sad to find out about Artie, but, hey, at least now Artie having Kurt as a roommate makes a whole lot more sense.

Now, though, she let's all of that fly out of her head, plugging in her earphones and putting "My Headband" on repeat. In a few hours she'd be in Paris (the one in France - thank goodness she cleared that up) and she'll have a little less than a week to enjoy the wonders of the city.

It's gonna be awesome.

***o*O*o***

"_Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. This is your captain speaking. We'll be landing at The Charles de Gaulle International in approximately ten minutes. Please follow our landing protocols and if you need assistance, please look to our flight attendants. Thank you and we hope you've enjoyed flying Murphy International Airlines. Take care."_

Santana stretches and clasps on her seatbelt, yawning widely.

Nothing goes over better than taking a nap while traveling across an entire ocean.

Good stuff.

The landing goes rather smoothly and after a short wait, they're finally allowed off the plane.

The changes are immediate and evident. The accents are everywhere and so are the people. All 'ouis' and 'bonjours' and, for the love of Breadstix, 'je t'aimes'.

She's about to barf from all the excessive displays of love but before she can she's literally floored, something large crashing into her back with remarkable force and sending her reeling.

"Ohmigod," she hears someone say, a woman, and she feels soft hands attempting to pull her up.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going and everyone was saying 'we' even when there was no one else with them and I'm not from here and I don't speak Paris-speak and I'm so confused," the woman goes on to ramble, not stopping even momentarily.

When Santana's finally upright again, she brushes herself off, trying not to glare at the woman who's just knocked her on her ass – technically her front.

Then, she doesn't even have to try. "It's fine," she interrupts, smiling a little. "I'm fine."

The woman finally stops rambling, embarrassment taking over now that her initial astonishment has passed. "I'm...yeah. I'm sorry. I'll just go now," she says, turning a little.

Santana's eyes widen and she finds her hand shooting out to grasp a pale wrist before she even thinks about it.

Reflex. "Wait, uh, so you're traveling, too?"

The woman relaxes somewhat and nods. "Business trip. You?"

Santana looks away momentarily. "Personal," she finally answers, feeling her cheeks burn. "I'm Santana," she says, letting go of the wrist in her grasp to extend her hand.

The woman beams, tucking a long strand of blonde hair back behind her ear. "I'm Brittany."

***o*O*o***

Brittany can't believe she's actually here or how extraordinarily pretty everything is.

The people, the buildings, the sky; it all just added to the atmosphere and the feeling of the city - the city that lives and breathes all on its own and all anyone can do is try to keep up.

She's finally made it to her hotel, no small feat for a woman like Brittany traveling in a foreign country all on her own, but the ease with which she had finding her temporary lodgings might have something to do with the Latina still walking beside her.

You know, just _maybe_.

"So, here we are," Santana says, staring up at the 7 Eiffel Hôtel where Brittany would be saying. Santana herself was headed to the Hôtel Château Frontenac.

Hell, if Jessie suddenly didn't want to marry her anymore, then Santana suddenly can't remember who paid for the hotel reservations.

Fair trade.

"Thank you so much for helping me find this place," Brittany says, smiling brightly at the other woman. "I'd probably still be roaming around the airport if it weren't for you."

Santana laughs. "I'm pretty sure someone would've helped you," she grins, her eyes turning a little warm. "You're kind of hard to miss," she adds shyly, willing herself not to blush.

Brittany, for her part, remains completely clueless. "It's probably my height," she chuckles. "Or maybe it's my hat."

Santana glances up at the furry beret sitting atop blonde hair. "The hat _might_ have something to do with it."

Brittany smiles again, absently rolling her suitcase on the ground. "Well... I guess I should head up to my room. Get settled in."

"Right, yeah, right. Of course," Santana says, shaking herself back into the present. "But, hey, look. Since _I'm_ here for a while and you're here for a while and we don't really have anything to do..." The Latina trails off, hoping Brittany will catch on.

Brittany's smile falters slightly. "...what?"

Santana's cheeks warm again, unbecomingly. Before she got together with Jessie she had been kind of a stud, although with the way she's acting right now, strangers might be hard-pressed to believe she's ever even kissed another woman before. "You know, I was thinking we could hang out sometime. Maybe do lunch...dinner?" She offers shyly, her eyes darting from the ground to Brittany's shoulders to Brittany's face.

All her frayed nerves are soothed though when Brittany surges forward, wrapping her arms around the other woman's prone form. "That would be so awesome. I was so worried I'd have a horrible time over here by myself but now..." Brittany trails off, pulling back to smile at Santana. "Now things are looking all the way up."

***o*O*o***

"Hey, Lopez. Shacking up with any hot Parisians yet?"

Santana outright laughs. "I landed two hours ago."

"_Then you're two hours behind_," Puck fires back. "_Back in the day, ten minutes in you'd have some chick begging for your cell number._"

Santana snorts, flopping back onto her fluffy hotel bed, crossing her arms behind her head.

"Well, to be honest, I did meet someone."

"_That's my girl_," Puck drawls and Santana can almost hear his grin. "_Why you holding back? Wait, is she there right now? Dude, just put the phone on the nightstand and I'll mute my end-_"

"Puck!"

"_What?_"

"It's not even like that plus, I actually think she's straight."

"_When the hell has that stopped you before?_" Puck asks, incredulous.

"Puck, I'm serious. This woman is not even interested. But, you know, she's fun and available so, we're gonna hang out."

"_Oh, is she not hot?_"

"You're such a guy."

"_You once were too, before Jessie castrated your ass. You used to be my girl-bro, bro. What the hell happened?_"

Santana sighs, staring at the ceiling overhead; the ring around her necklace burning against her chest. "I don't know."

"_Just promise me one thing, San. If this chick opens the window, even if she cracks it, promise me you'll take a shot. You're no fun when you're depressed_."

Santana smiles, a solemn little grin. "I promise."

***o*O*o***

Brittany's confused.

You see, the incredible wardrobe that was supposed to take five days for her to procure, showed up at her room at about 5AM Paris time, boxes labeled and ready for travel.

It's...confusing.

What's even more confusing is that when she called her boss to tell her about the mix-up, the woman didn't seem all that concerned with it. Even going so far as to implore Brittany to explore the city, enjoy herself.

Could it be possible that the woman actually _likes_ her?

Because Lauren Zizes doesn't like anyone, especially not employees.

Whatever her reasons, Brittany now finds herself completely and utterly available so when she gets a text a little later that day, asking if she is available for lunch, she doesn't have a reason to say no.

***o*O*o***

They agree to meet up at a bistro just walking distance from Brittany's hotel.

And Santana spots her straight away when she arrives, the blonde woman looking flustered and out of sorts when the hostess addresses her in French.

"I don't speak Pepé LePew," Santana hears Brittany tells the woman, tucking some hair behind her ear. She fights back a smile as she approaches the pair.

"Excusez-moi," Santana interrupts. "Elle est avec moi."

The hostess nods knowingly, bestowing a smile upon them both. "Par ici mesdames," she says, with a heavy French accent.

Brittany bumps Santana's hip with her own. "You speak French?"

Santana pinches her fingers together. "Un petit peu," Santana shrugs, bumping Brittany's hip back with a grin.

Brittany's smile turns a little sheepish and she looks away shyly before looking back to Santana. "Would you…teach me sometime?" she asks bashfully, pulling out her chair and waiting for the Latina to do the same before taking a seat.

Santana beams, sitting down in the chair and reaching a hand across to Brittany's squeezing it gently. "I'm yours."

The blonde's ears turn a tell-tale red, and she clears her throat nervously before picking up the menu, scanning the options. "So, what are you having?"

***o*O*o***

Santana spears a cherry tomato and holds it up in front of Brittany. "What's this?"

Brittany stares at it long and hard, concentrating. "Une tomate?" Brittany guesses, eyes hopeful.

"Oui," Santana beams.

Brittany frowns. "'We' what?"

Santana giggles. "Not 'we', 'oui'," she explains. "It means 'yes' in French."

"_Oh_," Brittany nods, finally getting it. "That awkward conversation with room service makes much more sense now."

Santana measures her laugh, using her spoon to pick up a potato this time. "Okay, well, do you remember what this one is?"

"Une pomme de terre," Brittany states confidently, nodding once.

"Right. You're catching on really quickly. Faster than Jessie ever did," the Latina says, mumbling the last part, but Brittany still manages to catch it.

"Who's Jessie?" she asks, munching away on a piece of lettuce.

Santana looks startled for a moment, caught, and Brittany frowns at the look. "I'm sorry. Did I say something bad?"

"No," Santana shakes her head dismissively. "No, you didn't." Her lips press into a line. "It's nothing, really. Jessie's just…my ex."

Brittany stops chewing. "Did you guys, um, recently…"

Santana nods, swallowing. "It was all kinds of messed up. We were engaged. This trip was supposed to be our honeymoon but Jessie, you know, called it off."

Now Brittany frowns. "Well, this Jessie guy was an idiot to let you go," she says, smiling slowly.

Santana lets her lips twitch upward. "She was an idiot."

"Who was an idiot?"

"Jessie."

Brittany's brow knots. "Didn't I just say that?"

"You said 'guy'," Santana says, plopping her chin into her hand, propping her head up.

"Right…" Brittany says slowly.

"But Jessie's not a guy," Santana informs her, waiting for the cogs to start turning and the pieces to fall in place.

"What- Oh my God, was he underage?" Brittany's eyes are wide.

"Jessie was, well, is a woman," Santana answers after her giggles trail off. "I'm a lesbian."

"Like Ellen?"

Of all the responses, that one actually throws Santana a little bit, but she's quick on her feet. "Actually, I'm more of a 'Portia' type of lesbian."

Brittany thinks on this too, before shrugging, returning to her salad. "Portia's hot."

***o*O*o***

"_So, she's gay?"_

Brittany's eyes widen and she smiles politely at Santana as the Latina stands across the way, chatting with the florist.

"Shh. Tina," she hisses into her cell phone. "Don't just…say it like that."

"_You're the only one who can hear me, Brittany. I detect some paranoia."_

"_Who's paranoid?" _Brittany hears Mike ask across the wire.

"_Brittany thinks some French woman is hitting on her," _Tina explains.

"She's not French," Brittany amends, trying to keep her voice down. "She's from the United States, like us. She just…"

"_Plays for the other team,"_ Tina jokingly supplies, laughing when all Brittany does is groan. _"Look, what's the big deal? So, she's gay. So, she thinks you're attractive. That doesn't mean that you have to stop hanging out with her. You said you like her."_

Brittany pouts. "I do but-"

"_No, no buts. Just, enjoy yourself Britt. And, hey, Katy Perry didn't think it was all that bad,"_ the other woman adds, cackling evilly.

Brittany eyes her phone, a small grin tugging at her lips. "I'm hanging up now," she mumbles, hitting the end button while shaking her head. "Jerk."

"Well, that was uncalled for."

Brittany turns around, her eyes falling first to the curly hair and dark eyebrows before settling on the smile. "What?"

"Blaine Anderson," the man introduces himself, sticking a hand out cordially. "And you're…magnifique."

Brittany just stares at him. "I'm what?"

The man laughs, clutching his Cybershot camera. "It means you're magnificent, although that one's usually not that hard to translate. You're a tourist, no?"

"I am," Brittany says, more or less answering because of the alluring accent. It was just something about those Frenchmen. "Is it that obvious?"

"No," he dismisses, shaking his head. "You're just very difficult to miss. Beauty usually is." He smiles, brandishing his camera again. "Are you here alone?"

Before Brittany can answer in the negative, Santana's suddenly at her side. "Actually," she says, stepping up beside Brittany, a smirk on her face. "She's not."

Blaine looks confused, what with the look Santana is shooting him and the way Brittany is looking back and forth between them like she's been caught in the middle of something, but he stands firm, not shirking away.

"Oh désolé," Blaine says, comprehending the meaning behind Santana's words.

Santana nods. "Vous cherchez quelque chose?" she asks, when he doesn't leave.

"Oui, quelque chose de magnifique," Blaine answers, eyeing Brittany.

Santana gazes at the blonde as well. "Oui, magnifique."

Brittany looks at the both of them, feeling uncomfortable. "Okay, what are you guys saying? I feel like the last tuna snack in Lord Tubbington's bowl."

"Oh," Santana smiles, breaking out of her reverie. "He was just saying that he thought you were magnificent," she informs Brittany, her smile widening when the blonde flushes slightly.

"Thanks," she says shyly, brushing her hair back, eyes flitting between Blaine and Santana.

Surprisingly, it's Santana that deflates. "But, I can leave, if you two want to be alone," she says, her tone casual, her eyes harboring something that looks a lot like rejection.

Blaine's about to jump on the opportunity but Brittany reaches over and threads her arm through Santana's. "Actually, Blaine Anderson, if you don't mind, I was just going to tell Santana here about all the flowers."

"Um…" Blaine starts, swallowing tightly. "That's fine."

"Okay, yeah," Brittany says, pulling Santana along. "Bye."

"Au revoir belles demoiselles."

"Hey," Santana whispers, allowing Brittany to tug her closer. "You just totally blew off the hot French guy to look at flowers with me."

"Well…" Brittany starts, leaning down to brush a finger along the petal of a white azalea. "I guess I really like flowers."

Santana grins. "Guess so."

***o*O*o***

"_Ask her out_."

"I've already asked her out Rachel. That's what the whole lunch and flower garden thing was about," Santana tells her friend. She's relaxing after a long day out without Brittany, well, several days. They've pretty much been joined at the hip, taking in the sights and sounds of Paris. Her newfound friend had to tie up some loose ends at a boutique this afternoon, leaving Santana alone to explore the elegant beauty of the city.

But, fuck, that was a shit-ton of walking.

She groans, shifting her feet under water as she sinks lower in the tub.

"_Did she know it was a date_?' Rachel asks, sounding as if she's struggling with something. "_Noah, stop_-"

"_Of course she didn't know it was a date_," Puck's voice barks out suddenly. "_Because little Miss stick up her ass won't grow a pair_."

"_If she grows a pair, Noah, she won't be little Miss anything then, will she_?" Rachel states smartly, and clearer. She's probably taking her phone back.

"_Whatever_," Puck grumbles. "_Listen to your lesbro, Lopez. Get. The. Girl_."

"_As crude as my other half is being Santana, I do think he has a point. You can't possibly expect anything more from this woman if you're not asking for it. Just ask her out. What's the worst that can happen_?"

***o*O*o***

This is the worst that can happen.

Brittany choking on a grape immediately after her dinner proposal is the worst that can happen.

Scratch that: Brittany dying after her dinner date proposal might be worse. The verdict's still out because at least with Brittany dead Santana wouldn't have to suffer through the – gasp – response.

"Are you okay?" Santana asks, presenting the woman with a glass of water, her fingers trembling as they hand over the tumbler.

Brittany nods but doesn't say anything, still working air into her lungs.

Santana stands awkwardly in front of her, Brittany slightly hunched on her hotel room sofa. "So, you can just forget about what I said," she says softly, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "You know, if that'll be easier for you."

Brittany swallows down some water before looking up, her eye finding an anxious looking Santana, the Latina worrying her lower lips to shreds.

"Just to be clear," Brittany croaks out, pausing to clear her throat for a second. "You are talking about a date, right?"

Santana's eyes are hesitant as they meet Brittany's. "Just dinner," Santana says.

"Santana-"

"Maybe a walk."

"Santana-"

"You don't have to-"

"_Santana_," Brittany laughs, stopping the Latina mid-sentence. "I want to go to dinner with you."

Santana stops her rambling. "You do?"

Brittany looks up at her, her smile brilliant. "I do."

"Cool."

***o*O*o***

"I don't get it."

Brittany peers over the side of the railing and looks down at the people moving around below. Maybe before she visited New York this might've been a big deal, but once you've seen one skyscraper you've seen 'em all.

"It's the infrastructure, Britt," Santana whispers in her ear. She moves behind Brittany, her arms holding onto the railing on either side of the blonde. "The way it's built. That's what makes it awesome."

"I can think of things that are awesomer," Brittany whispers back, leaning back slightly, trusting Santana to hold her up.

"Like what?"

"Oh, I dunno, the lights?" Brittany says, turning around suddenly so that her back is pressed against the railing, the plaza back-dropped behind her. "The stars," she adds looking up at the clear night sky, the specks of light millions of miles away twinkling magnificently. Santana follows her gaze, turning her eyes skyward. "You," she says quietly, still looking toward the heavens.

Brittany blushes becomingly, suddenly feeling the distance between them instead of the closeness. She stops star-gazing and meets Santana's impenetrable gaze, the Latina watching her closely. "_San_…"

"You are," Santana repeats, one hand trailing down Brittany's arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You really are, Brittany."

The breath catches in the back of Brittany's throat when Santana suddenly leans in, pausing just for a second before pressing her lips against the blonde's.

Brittany's gasp coincides with her body just melting, propelling itself forward into Santana's now waiting embrace. She doesn't quite know what to do with her hands but she needs purchase because she feels like she's floating and it would suck if she just tumbled backward off of the Eiffel Tower.

Especially now.

Her hands find Santana's shoulders, her fingers gripping firmly as their kiss deepens, Santana angling her head for better access and just when Brittany can feel herself floating away, just when she's getting completely wrapped up in the _feeling_ of it, raucous laughter pierces her bubble, bringing her back to earth and she pulls away from Santana, eyes looking wild.

"Britt," Santana tries to say, but Brittany can't take it.

It's too much.

"Brittany," Santana says again, grasping the blonde's hand, imploring. "Don't."

"I can't," Brittany says, pulling her hand away and disappearing into the darkness.

***o*O*o***

"_Are you scared?_"

"Maybe," Brittany shrugs, curled up on her hotel bed. It is raining outside, even though the sun's shining. Seems like Mother Nature is just as conflicted as Brittany.

She hugs her pillow tighter. "I don't know. I don't like girls, Tina."

Tina chuckles. "_Well, technically, she's not a girl_."

"T, I'm serious," Brittany whines. "I wouldn't even know _how_ to date another woman."

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa_," Tina interrupts. "_Who said anything about dating? You can taste the rainbow_-"

"_Taste the rainbow?_" Brittany squeals into the phone and Tina giggles in response.

"_I'm just saying, you're miles away from home, no one knows you're there and you obviously have the hots for her. You can hook up and get your gay on, then hetero-out when you get back to the States. I see no reason why you can't_."

Brittany shakes her head. "You're crazy."

"_And yet I still don't here you denying that you think she's hot_."

The blonde flushes deeply. "She's...attractive," she admits hesitantly.

"_Oh my God_," Tina faux gasps. "_You're such a lesbo_."

"I'm not," Brittany's quick to say. It's not that she thinks it's wrong; it's just that she doesn't like women. "I'm really not. She's just nice and fun and she looks amazing. I mean, can you be gay for one person? Is that possible?"

"_We're talking about being homosexual this time, right? Not happy_?" Tina teases and Brittany sucks her teeth, a soft sigh escaping shortly after. Tina sobers. "_I think you really like her, Britt. And that's all that matters. You don't have to define it_."

***o*O*o***

"_Oh sweetie_," Quinn murmurs across the speaker and Santana sniffles a little, tossing her pillow aside.

"I didn't come here to fall for anybody. I came here to have a little fun. Maybe hook up. This wasn't supposed to happen, Quinn."

"_But it did, it has, it is happening, San. She just...maybe she freaked out, maybe she's still freaking out. She might need time_."

Santana groans, kicking the hotel blankets around. "I know you're making all the sense in the world, Q, but I'm not digging logic right now. Especially after I shared the most magical kiss with the most perfect woman, and she breaks away and bolts on me like I'm the elephant man."

"_Wait, are we even old enough to get that reference_?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Okay, like I was Christina Ricci in that _Penelope_ movie."

"_Much better_."

Santana sniffs again, looking down at her phone when it beeps. Text message.

"_Just...don't overreact. I'm sure she's in her hotel room trying to sort out things_."

"Or she could be standing outside of my hotel in the rain."

***o*O*o***

Santana pushes open the gate, reaching a hand out. "What are you doing, Brittany? You're gonna get sick."

Brittany hangs back, the rain pelting against her skin. She's wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, the cotton material clinging to her skin. It's raining so hard that she has to speak loudly to be heard. "I need to talk to you."

Santana nods, steeping further out into the elements. It only takes her a few moments to get drenched. "Okay, well come on," she says, reaching still and she breathes easier when the blonde's hand clasps hers, their grip slippery.

She turns toward the entrance when Brittany tugs on her hand, drawing her attention back.

"Actually," Brittany shouts. "I don't want to talk."

Santana's brow knots for all of three seconds before Brittany collapses against her, pressing their mouths together in a passionate kiss and threading her fingers through wavy, wet locks.

She kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, until she can't feel the rain, or her own skin, her whole world wrapped up in the feeling of the other woman's mouth against hers.

And that's perfectly fine with her.

***o*O*o***

Rushed yet unhurried.

If she had to describe this moment between them, those would be the two words she'd use.

It's not ironic that the two things don't exactly go together. It's just another one of the things that make whatever's going on between her and Brittany the most impractical hook-up in history.

But, she doesn't have too much time to dwell on this, not with the way Brittany's kissing her or touching her or looking at her.

It's astounding that she can remember her own name.

They finally have made it to her floor, having had to calm down lest they be arrested for indecent exposure. The second the elevators doors open again, Brittany jumps on her, lips working her up into a frenzy.

She clumsily backs down the hall, Brittany following after, inquisitive hands heating up skin that's _not_ shivering because of the rain.

They reach Santana's room and Brittany – God, _Brittany_ – molds her body against hers so perfectly that Santana fumbles with the key card about four times before managing to open the door.

They stumble across the threshold when the door finally gives, breaking apart momentarily and not even bothering to see if it clicks shut before coming together again, all swollen lips and flushed skin.

The door presses uncomfortably against Santana's back but she could care less, concerned only with the little moans and sighs working their way out of Brittany's mouth and into hers, spurring her on.

Brittany trails her hands down the Latina's arms, fingers catching on the wet material of Santana's hoodie before tripping over Santana's palms, clasping their hands together. She takes Santana's left hand and guides it down her stomach, letting go when the other woman's fingers make contact with the waistband of her shorts.

Their kisses slow and then stop altogether and Santana watches Brittany watch her hand, the blonde trembling all over.

"Are you sure?" Santana asks, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Brittany nods, her forehead pressed against the other woman's. "I want you," she breathes, meeting Santana's gaze.

Santana swallows once before kissing her again, their mouths connecting wetly as she works Brittany shorts and underwear lower with nimble fingers, Brittany kicking both articles of clothing away when they hit the floor.

She gasps when Santana suddenly hikes her up, her legs wrapping around the other woman's hips. The Latina switches their positions, pressing Brittany against the door, giving her more leverage.

She knows there's all those clichés about taking it slow, making it _special_, but, as she sees it, nothing is more special than the gasp Brittany makes when she suddenly buries two fingers into liquid heat.

They find a rhythm easily, Brittany's hands clawing frantically at Santana's back, the euphoria coursing through her body and making it hard for her to breathe.

She's never felt this good before, so...fantastically good, and it just keeps getting better and better and better and better…

She comes undone with a deep thrust and a moan, her body shattering and becoming whole all at the same time. Santana holds her there, the Latina's muscles straining to hold her up, warm lips pressed against the blonde's neck, right near the pulse point.

She feels like she's made of jelly and so damn sated that she could probably just roll over and die: life fulfilled.

Luckily for her, when Santana carries her over to the bed and lays her down, stripping naked before slowly and seductively moving to straddle the blonde, Santana is just getting started.

***o*O*o***

Brittany feels like she's been throttled.

But in the good way, like those bruises you get after riding the Scrambler at the carnival.

She smiles, stretching out sleepily across the bed, half-expecting to collide with another warm body. When her hand finds only cool sheets instead of warm skin she sits up, suddenly feeling very cold and foolish.

It takes all of ten seconds for the mortification of being used to set in before the door to the hotel room opens and Santana comes in, holding a brown paper bag and two coffee cups.

She smiles when she sees Brittany, placing the food down before shedding what little clothing she has put on, smiling even wider when she takes in the blonde's flushed cheeks.

"Hi," Santana breathes, climbing onto the bed and under the sheets, shifting towards Brittany.

Brittany smiles when Santana hovers over her, eyes tracing the contours of her face. "Hi."

"I thought you might be hungry so I slipped out and got us some petit-déjeuner."

Brittany just nods, unsure what to do with her hands as they clutch the sheet covering her chest.

Santana, though, doesn't seem unsure of herself at all when she closes the distance between them, kissing Brittany slowly, softly.

When she pulls away Brittany's eyes are closed and her grip on the sheet has relaxed so much so that her hands are now gripping Santana's sides.

Santana smiles. "This is probably going to sound crazy. And I know I'd probably be better off just keeping my mouth shut, but I can't deny it. It just seems stupid not to because something brought me here Brittany; to this place, to this city, at this time. And I can't help but think that it was because I was supposed to meet you. I mean, it's like I traveled halfway around the world to find you and now that I have, I can't let you go," she says, her eyes shining with sincerity. "I don't want to. I'm…I think I'm falling in love with you."

Brittany's heart stops and her breathing and her hearing because no – a million times, no – she did not sign up for this. This was supposed to be a good time, a bit of fun before going back to doldrum Ohio and working for a boss that may or may not have a girl-crush on her.

She was not supposed to get involved – especially not with another _woman_. Her mother would kill her.

Well, maybe not _her_ mother. They still smoke pot together sometimes. But her grandparents?

They'd disown her.

Okay, so they _probably_ wouldn't disown her because, well, they love her and who in their right mind could possibly blame her for falling for someone as beautiful and funny and smart and as incredible as Santana Lopez?

Wait, hold the fucking phone.

Did she just _think_ that?

The alarm she feels must be transparent on her face because Santana's smile falters, her eyes drifting from Brittany's as she moves away slightly. "I'm...so stupid," the Latina says, forcing out a laugh as she shakes her head. "I mean, we barely know each other and I go and say something like that. I'm sorry."

Brittany makes her mouth work finally and surges up, tightening her grip on the other woman so that she stops moving away. "I feel it too, Santana. You're right. It is crazy and anybody else would think that we're insane for even considering it a possibility but it's true. I feel the same and I don't care-" Brittany manages to rush out before Santana kisses her again, both of them smiling into the embrace.

Brittany lets her hands roam, her palm prints burning a path along Santana's back and around to her stomach, unhurried kisses shared as she trails her fingers lower, experimentally pressing against Santana's core.

Santana sucks in a breath, her eyes snapping open to meet Brittany's.

"How long do you think it'll take before I'm really good at this?" Brittany asks in a whisper, her grin coy as she rubs small circles exactly where Santana needs her too.

Santana smiles, her hips moving rhythmically. "You're really good already," she manages around a gasp. "But, if you think you need the extra practice..."


	19. No Date For Prom

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Hi all. I'm back. Sorry for the hiatus and stuff but I was getting married. This one was scratched out of my head before I left and waiting patiently to be uplaoded when I came back, so, yay! Thanks for reading and reviewing and thanks to my beta, especially. Oh, and ignore my Spanish in here if it's really bad. It's been a while.

Now, two quick stories. **Story #1:** As some of you may know, I had acquired a case of sinusitis about a week before my wedding. What you may not know is that it turned into a case of acute bronchitis. For those of you that have never had it, just imagine uncontrollable, sporadic coughing fits. So, yeah, not the best condition to have for a wedding. Case in point: we're at the place in the ceremony where the guy/pastor/preacher (whatever I'm not that religious) says "speak now or forever hold your peace" and I'm looking across at my girl and that itch starts up at the back of my throat and my eyes widen and hers do too in that "don't you dare cough right now" way, but I can't help it and I let out a loud cough. The place goes dead silent and after I've straightened up (no pun) again, I look around and smile sheepishly before muttering out "Nevermind". It was good for a laugh but wifey did NOT like that.

**Story #2:** So, I'm deathly afraid of birds. That's the preface. We're planning the real honeymoon for October (to Italy, swoon), but, just for kicks, we decided to go to Jamaica real quick, you know? Well, like, there official bird must be peacocks or something (fuck what the brochures say) because those bitches were everywhere. And they're fucking huge. And they're fucking in mating season. And they fucking fly low to the ground. It was like my own personalized version of hell or something. All that was missing was re-runs of Ashden and Bartie scenes on repeat while George W. Bush mispronounces the word 'nuclear'.

Amending this to add that anyone who is not reading _I See You_ should. Just my opinion.

* * *

><p>Being the only girl in a family of boys should come with plenty of complications, but Santana's somehow managed to escape all that.<p>

Usually, being the only girl means that you have to deal with the wrath of protective older brothers, watching your every move, or annoying younger brothers, taking your stuff without permission. It usually means your boyfriends are scarred for life when your dad decides that his prized gun collection suddenly needs a cleaning whenever they come over. And it usually means your mother overcompensates for the lack of estrogen in the home by turning you into a Barbie girl, with pink bedroom walls and frilly dresses.

Well, her bedroom is pink, but you can barely tell with the posters and pictures affixed to every square inch of wall space. And her dad's gun collection is relatively small, and only needs a cleaning when they go out to shoot cans or something. And her 'boyfriends' are friends in only the platonic sense so no need for overprotection from the big bro.

You see, Santana is a lesbian.

Not the mullet-sporting, flannel wearing kind, but yeah, she likes the ladies.

She didn't think her mother would take it as well as she did, but fighting against it is like fighting against a mudslide.

Move aside or be buried alive.

Your choice.

"_What do you mean, 'you like girls'?"_

_Santana didn't think she could be any more clear than that, but okay._

"_I'm a lesbian."_

"_How do you even know what that means?" her mom asks, her eyes widened in shock._

_Santana shrugs. "Jerry Springer?"_

"_Mira, mija. Maybe you only _think_ you like girls. You're just confused."_

"_No, Mama. I am. I like girls. I only like girls. I thought maybe I could like boys too, but when Matt kissed me, I didn't feel anything. You're supposed to feel something aren't you?"_

_Santana's eyes are pleading as they look up at her mother, and the older woman can't do anything but take her little girl's face in her hands, thumbs brushing against smooth cheeks. "You're a wise one, Santanita. Always have been."_

"_Please don't stop loving me, Mama," Santana says, her hands clenching worriedly. "Please."_

_Her mother shushes her, leaning down to wrap her daughter in a warm embrace. "I will always love you," she tells her fiercely, holding her tightly. "Siempre."_

It went better than she'd ever expected but her mom was not going to be the one to break it to the rest of the family. That was up to Santana, so one night at dinner, Santana takes a deep breath and decides to tell them all.

"_You all eat like a bunch of cattle," Santana's mother comments, watching her oldest son Cristian smack on a tortilla._

"_It's a compliment to your cooking," their father says, smiling kindly at his wife._

"_It's a reflection of poor manners," she fires back, tapping her son's hand swiftly as he keeps it up._

"_Papa," her younger brother Manny complains. "Diggy's elbow keeps bumping mine."_

"_I can't help it," Diego a.k.a. Diggy pouts, eyes watering._

"_Don't cry, Diego," the older man says, patting the empty chair next to him. "Here. Come sit next to Papa."_

_Manny sticks out his tongue as Diggy gathers his thing. "Papa, Manny stuck his tongue out at me," he whines._

"_Manuel," his father calls out sternly. "Keep your tongue in your mouth."_

_Manny frowns, scraping his spoon across his plate. "Baby."_

_Santana's not eating and her father, seated beside her, notices. "What's wrong Santana? Are you not hungry?"_

_She shakes her head, swallowing tightly. "I…um…I have something I wanted to tell everyone."_

_Her father and mother give her their attention, putting down their silverware, but the boys just carry on eating._

"_It's kind of important," she says, clearing her throat._

"_Boys," her father says and they all comply, spoons and forks clattering against ceramic plates._

"_Okay, so…we're all family here. And, I think it's important to be honest with your family. And I haven't been entirely honest with you guys these past couple months. I mean, it's not like I've been lying about anything, I just haven't been myself. Not the way I want to be," she says, stumbling over her words. "And where else can you be yourself if not at home, right?" She lets out an anxious little chuckle, feeling her family's eyes on her. She seeks out her mother's and the woman gives her an encouraging nod. "See, what I'm trying to say is… I'm gay."_

_Manny's jaw drops and her father's eyes widen. Chris just smirks before getting back to his food. "Called it," he mumbles around a mouthful of beans, snorting when Santana just rolls her eyes._

_She's relieved though._

_Diggy looks back and forth between his parents, face confused. "What's gay?"_

"_It means Tana likes girls," Manny explains, looking down at his plate and carefully avoiding his big sister's gaze._

"_Ew," Diggy exclaims, scrunching up his little nose. "Why? Girls are gross."_

***o*O*o***

Now, Brittany Pierce was not the only girl in the family but she was the only gay girl and she'd pretty much suspected this much of herself since she could remember.

Inappropriate thoughts about Ariel from _The Little Mermaid_ were not the norm for little girls.

Her parents were nothing if not accepting, welcoming this revelation about their daughter like they did everything new in their lives, with open arms and open hearts.

Yeah, they were hippies.

In fact, the only real issue was Brittany having to explain to her little sister why she liked Wendy more than Peter Pan.

To be honest, she was more of Tink kind of a girl, but that's neither here nor there.

Or is it here?

Brittany doesn't really get that saying.

"_But," Stephanie said, looking very intelligent in her red 'Where's Waldo' glasses with the lenses poked out. "Wendy likes Peter and Wendy's a girl. And Peter likes Wendy and Peter's a boy. That's how it goes."_

"_Not always," Brittany tells her, making shadow puppets on the wall with a flashlight. "Sometimes girls like other girls too. And boys like boys. It's just the way they're born. Like, being Asian or having green eyes."_

"_I have green eyes," Stephanie supplies brightly, smiling up at Brittany._

"_And you can't change that can you?"_

"_Nuh uh," Stephanie said, shaking her head and Brittany pats her lap, beckoning her over. _

"_That's what I'm saying, Stephie. I can't change that I like girls. I just am that way."_

_Stephanie thinks this over, biting her lip a little as she sits on Brittany's lap. "You're still my big sister, right?"_

_Brittany nuzzles the girl's hair, finding her ear. "That's something else that'll never change."_

***o*O*o***

Santana was surprised it went over so well.

Her father, well, he'd suspected something was up when he'd never had to go through the drama his neighbors had with their daughters when it came to boys.

He had thought she was just a late bloomer, but now he knew better.

Cristian was still the same old jerk/hero of an older brother, teasing her mercilessly about her taste in girls but then beating the crap out of anyone who gave her crap for being gay – including cousin Romero.

Diggy was too green to even really get it, but it didn't matter; he still worshipped the ground his sister walked on.

In fact, the only real issue seemed to be her relationship with her middle brother.

They had always been close, being the two middle children, but Manny for all his bravado wore his heart on his sleeve and he'd been acting very strange toward her.

Different.

Santana wouldn't stand for that.

_Manuel yelled, feeling himself being yanked into the bedroom as he walked by. _

"_What the hell, San? You scared the crap out of me."_

_Santana did not look convinced. "Why are you being weird?"_

"_You yank me into a bedroom and _I'm_ being weird?" he says, shaking his head slightly. "Remind me to buy you a new dictionary."_

"_Ever since I came out, you've been treating me differently," she tells him, daring him to say something to contradict her._

_He doesn't._

_He just finds his shoes very interesting._

"_Manny…" she starts softly._

"_No, you know, it's cool," he shrugs, looking up at her finally. "You're gay. So what? I still love you and all that crap, but, Tana…I'm scared for you."_

"_What?"_

"_People…stupid people…they're mean to gay people and, I…I don't want anybody to be mean to you," Manny says, his eyes earnest. "You're my big sister."_

"_Look kiddo," Santana says, sitting down on her bed and patting the spot next to her for him to join her. "People are always going to have things to say and, it sucks but, there's nothing really we can do about that. So we shouldn't even waste time worrying about it. The only thing I want from you is your love and your support, can you give that to me, Niño?"_

_Manny nods, reaching up to hug his sister tight._

_He'd give her all the support she needed._

***o*O*o***

Courtney swung her legs back and forth, flipping through the fashion magazines half-interested when her sister sighed for the fourteenth time in three minutes.

"What's the matter, Brittany?"

Brittany sighed again. "Nothing."

"Then why do you look like someone ran over Lord Tubbington?"

Brittany's eyes widen in alarm. "Who ran over Lord Tubbington?"

Courtney chuckles, flipping the page. "Nobody, jeez. Take a chill pill."

"I can't," Brittany says sadly. "Last time I took one Mom got really mad."

"Brittany," Courtney sighs, pushing the magazine aside and getting up on her knees. "I can't fix what's wrong if you won't tell me what it is."

"Nothing's wrong," Brittany insists, looking shifty.

Courtney narrows her eyes. "Is someone picking on you in school?"

"No," Brittany answers quickly.

That's not it.

"Did a boy ask you out or something?"

"No," Brittany answers. "Well, yeah, but I don't care about that?"

"Then what's the problem, Britt? Sisters don't keep secrets."

"I wanna go to prom," Brittany finally spits out. She says it quickly too. All on one breath like if she doesn't get it all out she won't be able to, ever.

"Is that all?" Courtney grins. "That's nothing. We'll get you a dress and do your hair real nice and fix your make-up extra pretty-"

"I want to go to prom with someone," Brittany interrupts. "Like a date. That's a girl. I want to go to prom with another girl."

"There's another gay girl at your school?"

"No," Brittany pouts and the pieces finally fall into place for Courtney.

"Oh I see," she says, tapping her chin in contemplation. "Well," she says after several long moments. "There's only one solution."

"What?" Brittany grins, noting the tell-tale sign of adventure creeping across Courtney's face. It's the same look that taught her how to swim by teaching her how not to drown and the same one that got her arm broken.

Good times.

"We're gonna find you a date."

***o*O*o***

"Senior prom is coming up, Niña. Have you figured out who you're going with yet?"

Santana swirls a finger in her iced tea, idly watching the cubes dance in her glass. "No."

Santana's mom sighs and looks to her father and the man nods once, encouraging her.

"Well, there's that nice boy from church. Finn Hudson."

"Aye, Mama," Santana groans. "I'm not going to prom with a boy, okay? It wouldn't be right."

Her father looks at her sympathetically. "Santanita, your mother's only trying to help."

"Well I don't need your help," Santana erupts, pushing back from the table roughly. "I don't even want to go to the stupid prom anyway," she yells, stomping up the stairs loudly.

Later that night, Manny tiptoes into Cristian's room, stepping over dirty shirts and discarded shoes. "Cris," he whispers against the older boy's ear.

Cristian jumps up, chest heaving slightly as he peers around the darkened room. "Manny?" he hisses, squinting into the darkness. "Jeez, man, what do want?"

Manny gets right to the point. "Tana wants to go to prom."

"No shit, Sherlock. How long did it take you to figure that out," Cristian says, turning on his bedside lamp.

"No. I mean, she _really, really_ wants to go. But, she also really, really wants to go with a girl," Manny tells him, leaning against the comforter.

"Look, Manuel. I know she wants to go, but it's not like we can make some girl go with her," he explains softly. "That'd be wrong."

Manny grins. "But what if we found her a date?"

"What are you talking about, loco?"

"There's this internet website, for GLBTQ teens and I was chatting to some people on there-"

"Aye Dios mio, you were chatting in an internet chat room. Papa's gonna whap your butt," Cristian hisses again, more alert. "You know there are internet creeps online."

"But I was in this one thread for family of GLBTQ teens and there's this girl whose sister is having the same problem. So, I was thinking, they could, you know, go together."

"You think Santana, _our sister_, is going to take some random gay girl to her senior prom?"

Manny nods.

"You really are loco."

***o*O*o***

"Bam!" Courtney says one day, slamming the picture down on Brittany's desk and startling both her and Stephanie as they were coloring.

"What's that?" Brittany asks, eyeing the piece of printer paper suspiciously.

"That is your date," Courtney beams proudly. "Santana Lopez. She lives a couple of counties over but she's looking for a date to prom, too. I've already spoken to her brothers and they seem like pretty cool people."

Brittany doesn't look convinced. "I don't know…going to prom with a stranger?"

"You want to see a picture?" Courtney asks, flipping through her notebook for the snapshot that'd come off the scanner. "Here she is," she says, handing the scan over.

Brittany takes the gossamer piece of paper reverently; like she's afraid it'll break and meets the smiling face of a girl her age, brown eyes and dark hair, and incredibly pretty.

"She's pretty Britt-Britt," Stephanie says, her voice coming from behind her shoulder.

Brittany smiles. "She is."

***o*O*o***

"Absolutely not. No."

Santana tries to push pass her well-meaning but completely idiotic brothers but they stand their ground and stand hard.

"Her name's Brittany," Manny says, reading from a piece of notebook paper. "And she likes dancing, motocross, and _Jeopardy!_ even though she always gets the answers wrong."

"I don't care," Santana says, trying to brush by them again, but Manny and Cristian are some persistent people so they don't budge.

"Ooh," Cristian says, digging around in his pocket. "We've got a picture."

Santana's face is set hard when he thrusts the printed scan in front of her face but she finds herself looking at the prettiest girl with the bluest eyes and a gorgeous smile.

There's just the tiniest crack in her resolve developing.

"…she knows I'm gay?" Santana says, taking the picture.

"She's gay too, Tana," Manny beams. "That's the best part."

Santana smiles the tiniest of smiles. "So, this isn't like a charity case or anything? She legitimately wants to go with me."

"Well, I mean, you'd have to go to hers, too," Cristian shrugs, watching her closely. "But, yeah, we sent her your picture and everything and she still wants to go and, considering you were drooling in the photo that's saying a lot."

"Jerk," Santana grunts out through a grin, punching him in the arm hard.

Manny's watching excitedly, he can just see her caving in. "So, is that a yes?"

Santana nods.

***o*O*o***

"We're gonna be late," Brittany says, sitting back in the car.

She can't stop bouncing, trembling, _moving;_ her entire is body buzzing with all the possibilities of tonight. It could be magic, it could be special, it could be fantastic…but she won't know until she _gets there_.

"Hurry up, Court. We're gonna be late."

"We're fifteen minutes early, Britt," Courtney says, turning down the radio. "Would you calm down?"

"I can't help it," Brittany says miserably. "What if she doesn't like my dress? Or my hair? Or…me?"

"Brittany S. Pierce, cut that out now," Courtney admonishes lightly. "She's gonna adore you. How could she not?"

That sets Brittany somewhat at ease. "Thanks Courtney."

"No problem," Courtney says, smiling at her through the rearview mirror. "Now, just relax and let your big sister do the worrying for once, okay?"

"Okay."

***o*O*o***

"Just one more little stroke…right…there," her mother says, stepping back to observe. "Oh, you look so beautiful, sweetheart. Muy bonita."

"Mom," Santana blushes, ducking her head a little. She's nervous as it is and her mother's gushing is not making it any better.

She's wearing a red off the shoulder dress, long and form-fitting. Her hair has been teased to perfection and is cascading around her shoulders in long waves.

She does, in fact, look beautiful.

But, honestly, Santana couldn't care less about what she looks like.

In a few short moments she'll be face-to-face with her date, Brittany. A girl she's only spoken to once on the phone and twice online (but mainly because Brittany's a slow typer and her brothers were adamant about this blind date staying blind). But she's looked at her picture a few…dozen times and she can't wait to see what that same pretty girl will look like all done up like a princess.

The butterflies were getting brutal now.

The doorbell sounds and she hears voices downstairs – foreign voices – mixing in with those of her father and brothers and she knows it won't be long now.

"Santana!" her father calls up the stairs after what seems like far too many seconds. "Brittany's here!"

Her mother smiles at her and hurries to the door, telling her father to get the camera ready and directing Cristian that if he stops recording she's going to kick his butt, only she says it en Español because they have guests.

Santana carefully makes her way down the stairs, trying not to focus too long on the cameras rolling or the flashes going off. She doesn't want to trip and fall on her face. Her brothers are at the bottom of the stairs, Cristian focusing the camera on her, Manny grinning up at her, and Diggy flat our stares at her, gripping his Transformers toy in his hand. Her dad is beaming, turning the SLR this way and that as he snaps picture after picture.

The first stranger she sees is Brittany's sister. It has to be her sister because of the blonde hair and the fact that she has a camera attached to her face.

Then she sees Brittany and everything else just fades away.

She's wearing a yellowish-green party dress, and her blonde locks are flowing down her back in tight little ringlets.

They don't match – like, at all – but Santana doesn't care about that.

Brittany looks absolutely stunning.

"Hey," Santana says shyly, smiling nonetheless.

"Hi," Brittany says, her grin wide.

"Tana," Diggy says, tugging on her dress. "You look like Belle."

Brittany giggles at the little boy. "That's my favorite movie."

"Oh," Santana's mother effuses, moving behind her father and gesturing the two girls to stand closer together. "Let's get some shots, girls."

Santana moves closer to Brittany and flushes when the blonde's arm snakes around her waist. "You okay?" Brittany whispers.

"I'm great," Santana whispers back.

Several thousand pictures later, Santana's mom and Brittany's sister are finally satisfied enough to let them go.

"Um…I have something for you," Brittany says and Brittany's sister walks over, smile on her face as she hands over the clear plastic box. "I wasn't sure what color you were wearing so I just got a corsage that matched my dress. It doesn't really match yours though," Brittany tells her, smiling ruefully.

"It's perfect," Santana says, holding out her wrist for Brittany to slip it on. "Absolutely perfect."

Brittany smiles at her. "Yeah."

***o*O*o***

Matt Kemp's sitting at their table with his date Mercedes and Quinn, Santana's ex-best friend, somehow ended up sitting with them too.

Finn puts down the two cups of punch, sliding back into his seat. "This is kind of cool."

"It kind of blows," Mercedes says, head propped up by her hand. "This is what happens when clowns like Rachel Berry make decisions for the rest of us."

"A clown put your prom together?" Brittany asks Santana, keeping her voice quiet and Santana laughs loudly, shaking her head.

"No," she says, bumping Brittany's shoulder. "The girl that organized prom is kind of an uptight prude with a propensity for randomly breaking into Broadway showstoppers."

"…_Hey Mister Armstein, Here I am! I'll march my band out, I will beat my drum…"_

"See what I mean?" Santana deadpans, waving her hand as Rachel floats by them still belting.

Brittany's hand finds Santana's knee under the table. "Is that the DeeJay?" she asks, nodding at the guy with the mohawk standing by the speakers, nodding off.

"Yeah," Santana states slowly, brow knotting when Brittany slides away from the table. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Don't worry," Brittany says, giving her a cute little grin. "I'll be right back."

Santana can't fight the grin spreading across her face and she – and everyone else at the table – watches as Brittany makes her way over to Puck and whispers something close to his ear.

He says something back and Brittany shakes her head then looks back over at Santana, pointing to her.

Puck's smirk is immediate and her gives her the thumbs up sign to which she can't help but roll her eyes. Brittany says something more to him and, before long, Rachel's voice is the only noise in the gymnasium.

"Noah, what happened to the music?" Rachel asks, looking around alarmed.

"Sorry babe," Puck says, flipping on another vinyl. "I got a better offer. Santana, your girl wants you to meet her on the dance floor."

Santana cranes her neck around the few people milling about on the floor and there stands Brittany, cute smile and beckoning her towards her with a finger as the first strains of Pink's _Raise Your Glass_ float around the gym room.

Before long everybody's up and moving and having a genuinely good time and Santana's letting Brittany guide her through a few dance moves, her arms wrapped around her shoulders and Brittany hangs onto her hips.

"Your girl?" Santana has to ask, raising an eyebrow.

Brittany laughs. "He said that. Not me."

"Mmmhmm," Santana chuckles, her eyes taking in the pink tingeing Brittany's cheeks.

"I wouldn't be completely against it, though," Brittany adds casually, like an afterthought.

Santana grins up at her. "Me either."

***o*O*o***

"Whew," Finn says, flopping back into his chair, Brittany sliding in next to Santana again.

"You need to take your date back, Santana. She's wearing me out," he huffs out, skin flushed but smiling.

"Yeah, Brittany," Mercedes echoes, laughing kindly. "You're like the energizer bunny."

Brittany shrugs, her face pink from all the exertion. "I like to dance."

Santana grins at her. "I can see that."

"Okay party people. It's time to _sloooow_ it down," Puck says, switching on a slower track. "So, grab the one you're with and, well, the Jonas Brothers are kinda lame but I had a limited selection, people. Cut me some slack."

Brittany smiles brightly, standing up from their table again and silently holding her hand out to Santana. The Latina smiles shyly, placing her hand in Brittany's and allows herself to be whisked out onto the dance floor again, their bodies pressed closer than they were before.

Brittany sways them back and forth and Santana's hands slide past Brittany's shoulders to wrap around her neck, her head falling against the blonde's shoulder.

"I've never gone out with another girl before," Brittany whispers into her ear, holding her closely. "It's awesome."

Santana snorts against her collarbone, lifting her head up so that she can look at the other girl too. "Me either, but I think it's awesome, too."

"…_When you look me in the eyes, I catch a glimpse of Heaven. I find my paradise, when you look me in the eyes…"_

Santana's eyes stay locked onto Brittany's and she swears she sees them twinkling a little before Brittany is sinking down swiftly, pressing their mouths together in a chaste kiss that steals Santana's breath away.

She pulls away just as quickly, Santana's eyes blinking open at the loss of contact, surprised she'd even managed to close them in the first place. "…Britt…"

Brittany just smiles and starts singing along softly to the song, rocking their bodies again.

Santana just grins.

"…_When I hold you in my arms, I know that it's forever. I just gotta let you know. Never wanna let you go. Cause when you look me in the eyes…"_


	20. An Afternon At The Museum

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note (Please read): **Thanks for all the wedding congratulations. Shout out to NY for reppin' like major P.I.M.P.S. on the gay front. Okay, now that all of the real life is out of the way, on to the update information. Actually, for shits and giggles - and actually to prove a point to my wife who, although she totally gets my desire to write and encourages it, does not believe that people actually _read_ what I write - I want to know how many people actually read the chapters. I noticed I'm at 400+ reviews (which is awesome and this is totally not going to the people who review like madmen/women) but the numbers on people who've say, added this to their story alerts is _waaaay_ bigger. I just want to know who's actually reading and who's just, you know, clicking on the page by accident, lol. So, for kicks, could everyone who read this leave a review? I don't care if it's an anonymous 'I did' or something. Just let me know. And then I can go back to the Mrs. and tell her that "I win" and you know...stuff. Whatever, here's the chapter. Beta master, you're awesome. Reviewers and readers: you're awesome. Glee comes back September 20. Circle the date. Enjoy your day/afternoon/night guys. Off to the Taste of Chicago for me.

* * *

><p>The conversation went very much like this.<p>

"_Good morning, sweetie."_

_Santana quickly sits up in her bed, eyeing the doorway suspiciously. "What are you doing in my room?"_

_Her mother laughs, the sound almost foreign to her ears. "What? I can't come into my own daughter's bedroom."_

Well, considering the last time you stepped foot in here I was still wearing pull-ups, that would be no_, she thinks, but manages to keep it to herself._

"_What do you want, Mother?"_

_Santana's mom moves about the bedroom, touching little odds and ends like Santana's cheerleading trophies and a picture of her and her ex-boyfriend. "I was just…seeing what you were up to."_

"_Okay, now you're legitimately freaking me out."_

"_What are you planning on doing this summer when school's out?"_

_Santana shrugs, narrowing her eyes. "I don't know…chill? What else is there to do in this stupid town?"_

_Her mother sighs, knowing that this was a sore spot for them. It was rather sudden that her husband got his promotion and the family had to relocate, and since it was a stretch for her to get used to Lima, Ohio after being accustomed to Rodeo Drive, she knew it was even more of a culture-shock to Santana, who'd only ever known that life. "Your father's spoken to one of his colleagues. He works at the museum."_

"_Why are you telling me this?"_

"_Because you're going to be working at the museum," her mother informs her sternly._

"_But-"_

"_No buts. This will be good for you. It'll get you out of the house. You can meet some people."_

_Santana groans, rolling her eyes. "This sucks."_

"_Yeah, well. So does just about everything when you're sixteen."_

So, that's how it came to be that Santana has had to spend every single Saturday night watching dust settle at Lima's local museum.

This was just turning out to be an awesome year.

And that's sarcasm by the way.

She couldn't really believe they actually called this place a museum. An old Ford Model T and a log cabin, a museum does not make. But, then again, she's visited the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago and the California Science Center in Los Angeles.

It's not really fair to judge.

"Um, Santana?"

She looks up from her nails and finds that _awkward_ boy – Jacob Ben Something or Another – looking timidly at her.

"What do you want Jewfro?"

The boy fidgets with his glasses. "A kid got sick by the tank and I have to go and clean it up."

Santana's nose upturns. _And how is this my problem?_

"Okay," Santana says pointedly, dismissing the boy. "Go get it up. Shoo."

"Aren't you forgetting the three o'clock tour?" Jacob asks, raising an eyebrow.

"What three o' clock tour?"

"The one that I'm supposed to be giving. But…I can't give the tour _and_ scoop up vomit chunks, so…unless you're volunteering to do the latter, you're going to have to do the former."

"I don't speak nerd," she deadpans. "Spell it out in English."

Jacob grins. "You have to give the tour."

***o*O*o***

"I did _not_ sign up for this shit."

Santana's boss rubs his eyes wearily. "What is the problem now, Santana?"

She stops mid-pace to glare at him. "I have to give the _tour_? No way. No. What if someone I know sees me wearing this ridiculous purple vest? Public humiliation was not in the job description."

Mr. Schuester drops his hand from his face, eyes set on the girl. "Why is everything such a big deal with you? It's just a thirty-minute tour-"

"_Thirty minutes? _Have you even looked around at this place? How anyone willingly spends ten minutes in here is beyond my comprehension and you want me to _talk_ about it for thirty? That's insane."

"Well, you could always go help Derrick unclog the toilets and I'll go do the tour."

Santana's eyes widen. "Never mind. I'm good."

"You sure?"

She nods eagerly. "When's it start?"

"Now."

***o*O*o***

So, like, nobody shows up for the tour. Which is completely fine with Santana, but she'll sit on the stupid stool for the obligatory ten minutes anyway.

It's not like she has anything better to do.

Actually, she could probably text Puck back in L.A.; see what he's up to.

More than likely he's at the beach, surfing and being all kinds of hot. She would've totally stayed with him if she didn't think "long-distance-relationship" was code for slow and painful emotional death.

So she has a flair for the dramatic.

She's so caught up in her thoughts about home that she fails to notice the museum doors open, or the visitor approach, or the finger tapping her shoulder; wait, no, she feels that.

"What the-" she flinches back, barely taking in the sight of widening blue eyes before flailing back comically on her chair. "Personal boundaries, fool. Respect them," she grumbles out reflexively.

The girl in front of her shrugs aloofly. "I thought you were a robot."

It's the strangest thing she's ever heard and she's waiting for the punch line or for, you know, like _Candid Camera_ but nothing comes. The blonde girl just blinks, waiting.

"Whatever," she grunts. "What do you want?"

"When is the tour?"

"Ten minutes ago," Santana answers flippantly, smirking.

She expects a snide response, or maybe a demand for her manager – which, frankly, it'd serve Schuester right for making her do this in the first place – but none of that is forthcoming. In fact, all that happens is the blonde frowns and sucks her teeth in disappointment.

"I missed it?" she says. "I was trying to get here but I'm having a hard time with my new watch," she adds on, as if Santana cares, and even goes so far as to thrust her wrist in Santana's face.

It's digital.

Santana shakes her head.

"Well, too bad, you missed it. Guess you'll have to wait 'til next time," she says dismissively, her eyes going back to her nails.

Again, the blonde just stands there.

Santana's annoyed.

"Okay, _now_ what do you want?"

"I'm waiting until next time," the blonde answers cutely, affixing Santana with a smile so brilliant she almost has to look away.

Almost.

"I didn't mean-" Santana starts, laughing a little in spite of herself. "Okay, okay. How about I give you a quick tour and then you can leave and I can finish the rest of my shift in relative peace? It's a win-win, right?"

The blonde looks contemplative. "Is that when I get something I want and you get something you want, too?"

It's an earnest question so Santana just answers. It's probably easier than asking another question.

She shrugs. "Yeah."

"Okay," the girl says, beaming again.

Santana's not entirely sure why she smiles back.

***o*O*o***

"Okay so this is-"

"Wait!"

Santana's eyes widen and she looks at the other girl as if she's lost her mind.

As if she didn't already know that, though…

"What?" she asks, looking around.

"You didn't say your name," the blonde supplies, smiling kindly. "You're supposed to say, 'Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen and welcome to the Allen County museum. My name is Brittany and I'll be your tour guide today'."

Santana frowns. "But my name's not Brittany."

The girl laughs, unfettered and free. "Of course not, silly. Brittany's _my_ name."

Santana's face feels warm, embarrassed about her slip-up. The blonde, well, Brittany, may be rubbing off on her.

"Okay, well," she says slowly, fidgeting with her vest. "My name is Santana and I'll be your tour guide today. Is that better?" she asks wryly, grinning slightly.

"You forgot the 'welcome' part."

"Do _you_ want to give this tour?" Santana asks, part kidding and part completely serious.

Brittany chuckles and shakes her head, stepping up closer to the first exhibit. "I like that you're doing it."

Santana's stomach quivers slightly and she looks away from Brittany, her eyes falling on the Conestoga wagon. "Well, okay, um…this is the-"

"You didn't ask me what _my _name was," the blonde girl interrupts and Santana literally gapes at her in awe.

Is she serious?

"You just _told _me your name," she informs her, hoping to hell that this girl doesn't have some kind of early onset Alzheimer's-type disease. She would really appreciate not having to live through her own personal _Groundhog Day_.

Brittany shrugs. "It's polite to ask."

Santana rolls her eyes, but, uncharacteristically indulges the girl anyway. "What's your name?"

"Brittany," the girl answers straight away, enthusiastic and smiling from ear to ear.

It's endearing if Santana had to put a word to it, but, also kind of crazy.

Come to think of it though, so have been all the girl's actions and words this afternoon. Maybe it's just the way she is.

Santana clears her throat. "It's nice to meet you, Brittany."

Brittany's smiles softens, her gaze falling on Santana's face. "It's nice to meet you, too, Santana."

***o*O*o***

They're in front of Mr. George S. Pond's replica of Mount Vernon and, to be honest, Santana's quite surprised she hasn't checked out yet.

It's not like she hasn't seen these things time and time again this summer, and, let's face it, how many times can you see the prototype of the first iron lung and be impressed?

Actually, it never really impressed her.

It looked like an overgrown incubator.

But…

She's not bored.

Not checking out.

Not in the least.

And the only thing she can attribute that to is the blonde casually strolling along beside her.

Brittany is, for lack of better words, a little slow on the uptake but there is nothing more adorable than the absolute wonder that takes over her face each time they stumble upon a new exhibit, or item, or…anything.

It reminds her of the Viewfinder she had as a kid. How she'd peer through the thing for hours on end, watching the pictures morph and change before her eyes. She finds herself watching Brittany with the same enthusiasm, more interested in how her face lights up than anything in the museum.

Maybe the heat was getting to her.

"It's like a really fancy dollhouse," Brittany comments, her eyes floating over the tiny architecture.

She leans down and peers really close into the model. "There are tiny people in there."

Santana jumps into teaching mode. "Yeah, it's supposed to be President Washington and Martha."

"This reminds me of _Beetlejuice_," Brittany says, her nose wrinkling up and Santana laughs, leaning down to look as well.

"Oh my God, I used to love that movie," she giggles.

Brittany turns her head to watch Santana, smiling slyly. "Yeah. I used to have a crush on Winona Ryder. You know, before she stopped remembering how to pay for things. She was so hot."

That little revelation has Santana standing straight up again, blinking several times to figure out if she'd heard correctly.

Like blinking her eyes is going to clear her ears.

Silly girl.

"Excuse me?" she croaks out, her jaw a little slack.

Brittany's looking at her, confused. "Winona Ryder? She's hot, right?"

"I…I don't know," Santana scrambles to say. "I'm…I-"

Brittany laughs, moving forward. "Are you okay?"

Santana measures a step back. "I'm-"

"It's okay for girls to think another girl is hot, Santana. It doesn't mean anything," Brittany tells her, still all smiles. "I mean, you're hot."

Santana's face feels like it's on fire.

"And you're pretty," Brittany continues, seemingly unaware of what her words are doing to the Latina. "You have a pretty name, too."

"…thanks?"

Brittany shrugs. "You're welcome." She reaches for Santana's hand and grips it, pulling her to the next exhibit. "Oooh, Santana, what are those?"

***o*O*o***

It's probably the least sexy exhibit to get your mack on in front of, but, whatever, okay? Apparently, Brittany had had enough and if anyone ever asks in the future they'll tell them that it first happened at the Mount Vernon Dollhouse.

As it is though, they are actually standing in front of a collection of Jasper rock when Brittany first makes her move.

"It's awesome."

Santana shrugs, her body still thrumming even though they're past the whole _Beetlejuice_ thing. She can't quite put her finger on _what's_ going on but she did go outside without drying her hair today.

Maybe she's coming down with something.

"It's a rock," she deadpans, arms folded across her chest.

"But it's different colors," Brittany implores, her eyes sparkling as she examines the piece of stone. "It's really pretty."

Santana shrugs again. "It's just a rock."

Brittany sneaks a glance at Santana over her shoulder before straightening up, her eyes finding the other girl's and staying there. "It's pretty."

Santana swallows. "So you've said."

Brittany moves forward and keeps going, that issue with personal boundaries arising again, but before Santana can protest, her back is pressed up against a wall and Brittany's right in front of her, smiling, and so, so beautiful.

Santana squints her eyes closed, willing that last thought from her mind and swallowing against a throat that's suddenly closing up.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, her hands gripping her own biceps tightly.

Brittany's smile softens again, taking in Santana's discomfort. "You're hot."

Santana tries to laugh, but all that she manages is a choked gasp. "Yeah, and?"

"You're pretty," Brittany breathes, moving even closer. Maybe. Closer doesn't really seem like a possibility when someone's already draped over you.

"That still doesn't explain-"

"I want to kiss you."

All the air leaves Santana's lungs, her body feeling as tight as a drum. "But I don't like-"

"I'm going to kiss you," Brittany says this time.

And so she does.

She kisses her and kisses her and kisses her until Santana's arms unclench and fall limply to her sides.

She kisses Santana until Santana stops being so shocked and responds, her eyes sliding shut.

She kisses her until Santana's mind turns into this blank slate of nothingness.

And when she stops, she steps away, giving Santana every opportunity in the world to run away if she wants.

Santana's lips are still pursed but her body's cooled down a little and her chest hurts because she's temporarily forgotten how to breathe. A few short seconds pass and her eyes blink open, unfocused and dazed as they settle on Brittany.

"You kissed me," she breathes, almost like she doesn't believe it, but running her tongue over her lips she tastes lip gloss that definitely doesn't belong to her. "You kissed me," she says again, louder this time.

Brittany nods, eyes wide. "Don't be mad."

Santana swallows, feeling the weight of the wall pressing against her back, almost like it's pushing her. "I'm…not. I…just, well…can we do that again?"

Brittany grins, laughing giddily as she launches herself at Santana, pressing their mouths together like before.


	21. Upgrade You

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **"Ask and ye shall receive." I totally gotta thank you guys for coming through like you did. He he, I totally won, by the way. Can't say what I won. Pretty sure that'll earn me a few dozen nights on the crappy as couch but I did win. So, as a reward, I knocked out a new chapter. My Beta and I are on the same page. It's much easier to write these little snippets than it is to write the on-going fics. I finally get the appeal of being a one-shot writer (even though I kind of have a love/hate relationship with reading them). And she thinks it's a lot easier to Beta these. It's a win-win. Except for the people who want updates to Life and Other Concepts or The Beauty of Imperfection, or (can't believe I'm saying _this_) Surf Story 2. Then it kind of sucks. Okay, without further delay, here's the chapter. Thanks for reading and reviewing. You guys almost pushed it up 100 reviews on one chapter. That, my friends, is dedication. Love you all. Oh, and Chris, yes, my wife and I have a very interesting relationship, lol.

P.S. I'm currently reading and into _I'd Rather Be Flying Than Falling_. I recommend that for anyone who's interested. Anybody got any fic recs for me? They could be your own or not just as long as its Brittana, I don't care. 'kay? Looking forward to the responses. Oh, and one more thing (Gosh, I'm so long-winded), is there anybody that can draw out there? When I post these things on l(i)vejournal, I was thinking (and a few of you suggested) I should have some animation to accompany every chapter. I think that would be cool so...any takers? I'm open. PM/review me.

* * *

><p>"Samuel, we're going to be late," Mercedes says, clipping her left earring on.<p>

Her husband of five years is nearby, fussing with a much too expensive silk tie. "We wouldn't be," he grumbles under his breath, trying to remember if the bunny goes around the tree or under the log first, "if you'd just let me wear a clip on."

"I heard that." Mercedes sprays on some perfume. "You're not wearing a clip on tie to a fancy dinner with our friends," she says, moving to stand in front of him and expertly doing the tie. "My man has to look fine."

Sam smiles adoringly. "I always do."

***o*O*o***

"And do make sure he goes to bed before nine this time, Nicole," Rachel tells the babysitter, holding her arms out while Finn drapes a coat around her.

"I'm sure Nicole will do a lovely job, Rachel," Finn says, smiling at the young girl and then rolling his eyes when his wife looks away.

"While I have nothing but the utmost confidence in Nicole's abilities, Finn, there's nothing wrong with seeing to it that some parameters are set," the brunette states, grabbing her handbag, still sorting out instructions as Finn forces them out of the door. "No television either. It over stimulates him and he has outlandish dreams."

"Have a nice night, Nicole," Finn says, closing the door behind him and his rambling wife.

***o*O*o***

"I love those earrings, Quinn," Tina says, leaning up in the backseat to examine them better.

Quinn smiles, touching the dangling diamonds gently. "Thank you," she says, looking over to her husband. "They're an anniversary present from Mike."

Mike smiles, hitting the turning signal with a shy shrug.

"Dang Chang," Artie says from the back, closing his hand over Tina's. "You're making the rest of us look bad."

"Speaking of 'us'," Mike speaks up. "Are Puck and Santana going to be at this thing?"

Quinn groans, rolling her eyes. "_Noah_," she corrects bitterly, "has decided that monogamy is not his thing this month so my guess is no."

"They're off _again_?" Artie asks, somewhat incredulously. "Who would've thought that out of all of us, the jock and cheerleader would completely implode? They were all over each other in high school."

"Well," Tina sighs, sitting back against the car seat heavily. "Life be's like that sometimes."

***o*O*o***

"Just get out, Noah! Leave!"

Puck ducks yet another sofa cushion and she's really pissed now.

Damn him and his….dexterity.

"Babe, she didn't mean anything," he says, still dressed to go out. "You know you're the only one I care about."

Santana really hates that she's crying; hates that it hurts this damn much. "How the hell am I supposed to believe that when you fuck any girl who looks at you?"

"That's not fair," he yells back. "I do not fuck _any_ girl. I have my standards."

The pillow connects this time.

"Ugh! Just get out!" she yells, her closed fists connecting with his shoulder, arm, and back repeatedly. "Go!"

Puck pauses at the doorway, his eyes catching hers around his shoulder. "What about our friends? The dinner party?"

"I don't care! Go!" Santana yells, slamming the door behind him.

It totally sucks that she can't have what everyone else has.

Sam looks at Mercedes like she holds the secrets to the universe.

And Finn and Rachel are a half-kid away from the nuclear family.

And even Quinn and Mike – the most unlikely pairing of all of them – have gotten married and stare at each other like there's nothing they'd rather be doing.

She wants that.

Doesn't she deserve it?

***o*O*o***

"Hey guys," Kurt says excitedly, coming up to the large table and everyone stands, exchanging handshakes and hugs and kisses. Just like friends who haven't seen each other in a while are supposed to.

"There's someone I want you all to meet," he grins, waving his hand to the bar and a young man about their age comes over, clasping hands with Kurt immediately upon arrival. "This is Blaine Anderson."

Mercedes' jaw drops and she shares an excited look with Tina. "_The_ Blaine?"

Kurt nods eagerly, looking just like the little fresh-faced kid she'd met all those years ago. "Uh huh. This is him. Isn't he gorgeous?"

All the women gush and all the men extend their congratulations, smiling and laughing and overall enjoying one another's presence. All, that is, except for Santana.

Quinn notices.

"Honey," she says, tapping her friend on the arm companionably. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Q," Santana says, forcing a smile. "He's Puck. He cheated. It's…what he does."

"That doesn't mean you have to put up with it though-"

"I don't want to talk about it, Quinn. We're out to have fun tonight so let's…" she picks up her glass of wine, "…have fun."

***o*O*o***

"Perhaps I should go talk to her," Rachel says, moving towards the bar.

Mercedes' hand on her elbow keeps her in place, though. "I don't think that's a good idea Rachel."

"I don't see why not. She's ruining a perfectly good evening out by being antisocial and emotive. Studies show that in times of severe emotional distress, escaping through positive social interaction can be very beneficial," Rachel informs her. "It's a valid coping mechanism."

"Yeah, well," Mercedes says, dragging Rachel back to their table. "So is blowing off some steam with a few drinks. It won't kill her."

***o*O*o***

Santana taps the bar counter, twice.

"Another double shot?" the bartender grins, leers really.

She nods, her eyelids feeling somewhat heavy.

"Coming right up," he grunts.

Santana isn't really a lightweight by definition, but she hasn't eaten much today and, add to that the dumbassity – it's totally a word, she decides – of Puck and it's no wonder the liquor goes straight to her head.

The bartender, Dave, sets the shot glass down in front of her and she tosses the opaque golden liquid back, dry-swallowing as the alcohol burns down her throat.

"Another," she says, setting the glass back down, hard.

"You might want to slow down."

Santana might want to take him up on that offer because a) she's hearing things and b) he's a ventriloquist because c) he totally just sounded like a woman and d) his lips did not move.

"What?" she asks him, her tongue feeling heavy.

A hand settles on her shoulder and it's not the bartender that's talking to her. It's someone else.

And this someone is blonder and less pudgy and way prettier.

"I said," the woman smiles when Santana meets her eyes. "You might want to slow down."

So, she's drunk, obviously, because the first thing she wants to say is 'But I'm not going fast'.

She doesn't though.

She just croaks…like a frog.

The woman tilts her head. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Santana blurts out, loudly. "I'm completely fine. Just…sitting here and drinking and thinking about how all men kind of suck."

The woman smiles again, brilliantly. "You won't find an argument here," she agrees, nodding at the bartender to bring her a drink. "Is anyone with you?" she asks, motioning to the stool next to Santana.

"Nope," Santana slurs out, grabbing her empty shot glass and frowning when nothing comes out. "I am currently and blissfully all alone."

"That's awesome," the blonde woman chuckles, tossing her head back a little and Santana watches as the silken locks wave magnificently. "For me, I mean," she adds with a sly look that Santana can't quite put a finger on.

Her muddled mind does however settle on the other woman's hands, and she's delighted beyond belief to find fingers devoid of any jewelry.

So she's not the last single hag on the planet.

Which begs the question: is she really single? She didn't officially break up with Puck. Just put him out. And she does that every other week.

Still, she feels like she's reached some pivotal breaking point in their relationship and she can't go back this time.

She won't.

"I won't," she says aloud, dropping a fist down onto bar counter.

"You won't what?" The other woman asks, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

Santana blinks back to the present, watching as the other woman smirks and takes a long sip from some fruity concoction, sweeping her tongue out to moisten her lips.

Wait, Santana thinks. Why am I looking at her tongue?

"Who are you?" She blurts out before she can stop herself.

"The name's Brittany," she says, grin widening. She holds out her free hand for Santana to shake and Santana does, her mind focusing in on how soft and small they are.

They're nothing like Puck's.

"Brittany," Santana repeats dumbly, still a half-step slow in the conversation, and the blonde nods, winking again. "Is that it?"

The woman – _Brittany_ – grins. "That's it for now. I don't make it a habit to go telling perfect strangers my name."

_Oh_, _right._

Santana grins sheepishly, suddenly and inconceivably aware now that her hand is still clasped gently in the other woman's. It's…strange. "I'm Santana," she mumbles, extracting her hand from their firm embrace.

Brittany's eyes light up. "Like Pedro Santana – famed former president of Santo Domingo?"

Santana gapes. "Or like Carols Santana – the guy with the guitar."

"Either way," the blonde shrugs, sliding her glass along the bar top just a little. "It's a really pretty name."

"Thanks."

She's blushing, but looking down at her empty shot glass, she knows there's no drink to attribute it to.

***o*O*o***

There are tears in her eyes.

Actual droplets of saline and lysosymes.

And as she clutches one hand against her stomach and the other clenches unhurriedly against a soft shoulder, Santana wouldn't have it any other way.

"But…_really_," she gasps out, trying to catch her breath. "How do you _lose_ a wheelchair?"

Brittany shrugs, giggling quietly and watching Santana closely. "I just did."

Santana snorts and doubles over again, the answer almost more hysterical than the actual fact this woman had lost an entire wheelchair.

"I probably shouldn't say that my grandpa was in it," Brittany says with a laugh. "You might never recover."

Santana's laughing so hard she might cry, as in start bawling. "I can't…" she breathes out, her hand drifting along Brittany's arm and tightening around her bicep. "I can't…"

Brittany shifts, bringing her body closer to Santana's, moving her free arm to brush Santana's hair back away from her face. "You've got a sexy laugh."

Santana's breath catches, the laughter choking off abruptly as she snaps her head up, eyes wide as they look at Brittany.

Brittany: smiling, fingers still combing gently through tousled hair.

Santana's getting a little light-headed.

"Oooh, someone's having fun."

Quinn pinches Rachel on the elbow discreetly for that one, the pair having spotted Santana on their trip back from the restroom. "Hey San," she says, smiling kindly at Brittany. "We're all getting ready to head out. Did you need a ride?"

Santana, who'd upon hearing Rachel's voice jumped away from Brittany like Mariah Carey should have jumped away from _Glitter_, looks at her friend like the missing character from _The Wizard of Oz_.

You know, the one that lost its voice.

She looks at her friends – Rachel waiting patiently for an answer and Quinn looking like the cat that ate four canaries – and all she can seem to do is make these strange croaking sounds in the back of her throat.

Again with the weirdness.

What is _wrong_ with her?

"Um," Brittany speaks up, looking between the other two women and Santana. "If it's okay with Santana, I'll take her home," she volunteers.

"You will?" Quinn says.

"You will?" Santana squeaks.

Brittany shrugs, and for the first time this evening Santana actually think she looks kind of shy, her gaze drifting away from Santana's as her cheeks warm. "I'm having a nice time with you," the blonde says, glancing at Santana through her eyelashes.

"I bet," Rachel snorts, her voice lowered. But everyone catches it, earning herself yet another pinch.

"Okay, well, we'll let you two get to it, then," Quinn says, saving the day yet again and tugging Rachel away. "Just, call when you get home, San."

Santana nods aloofly, her eyes following her friends walking away until they flutter shut involuntarily when a soft voice whispers into her ear.

"Where were we?"

***o*O*o***

"Where were we?"

It's dark where they are, which is kind of surprising for a restaurant bathroom but her wandering thoughts about poor lighting in public places crash together like test dummies when Brittany moves in even closer.

Her eyes dart around nervously because she's totally expecting Rachel or Quinn or Mercedes or (oh God no) Kurt to just jump out and snap a picture of her right now.

Right now, with her back to the bathroom stall and Brittany zeroing in on her like she's the last flavored rice cake at fat camp.

"You look like you're about to pass out," Brittany assesses, gently placing dark locks behind a perfect ear.

Santana takes in a shaky breath. "You're about to kiss me."

Brittany smiles, her nose crinkling. "You're brilliant."

That actually makes her smile a little, rolling her eyes at herself. "It's just…I've never done this before."

"Now, I don't believe that."

"I haven't," she insists, her eyes fluttering when the blonde's other hand slides around her waist, pressing their bodies together. "Ever."

Without further preamble, Brittany leans in and brushes her lips against Santana's softly, gently.

And then she pulls away. "How was that?"

But Santana doesn't say anything. There's no need.

You see, sometimes actions speak much louder than words.

And when Santana dives forward, nerves gone and a much more pleasurable sensation settling in her belly, she might as well have been speaking through a bullhorn.

***o*O*o***

Fuck it.

That's the thought process currently.

Fuck. It.

If Santana wants to get drunk and make out with an extremely attractive blonde-haired, blue-eyed stranger, then that's exactly what she's going to do.

The rest?

Well, that's still to be determined.

If it weren't for that red-head with the weak bladder they might've already gotten to the "rest", but Brittany's hand was sliding up the inside of her thigh when that bitch crashed into the stall like a rhino and Santana had tensed up so horribly then, that Brittany had only giggled, taking deep breaths as she pressed her forehead against the brunette's shoulder.

"Let's get out of here," she'd whispered.

And that's when Santana's 'Fuck it' thought process started.

"Wanna take a cab?"

Fuck it.

"Wanna make out in the cab?"

Fuck it.

"Can I come up?"

Fuck.

It.

Unfortunately, she apparently has no more fucks to give and the liquor-meter is on 'E' which translates into: I'm no longer _that_ intoxicated so the courageous person that was dry-humping you in the taxicab has left the building.

Brittany doesn't really know that though.

"Wait," Santana says, holding her hands up just before the blonde is about to pounce.

"What?" she asks, looking rather entertained. "Oh, is this where you ask if I've brought a condom?" she jokes.

Santana's nerves are beyond frayed – and she's way too horny apparently – because her mind just went to all kinds of dirty places. "What? _No_," she says, brow furrowed. "I'm just…it's just…"

"Santana," Brittany interrupts, smirking wickedly. "I get it. You've never done the gay sex thing. And, honestly, your nervousness is _such_ a turn on. But, seriously, if neither one of us isn't at least partially naked in the next two minutes, I may just explode."

"Implode."

"What?"

"Spontaneous combustion usually results in implosion," she finishes, rather lamely.

Leave it to Santana to be concerned with semantics when she's about to engage in her first lesbian 'sexcapade'.

Brittany smiles at her all the same, closing off the distance between them and getting rid of her shirt in one fell swoop.

It's impressive.

"We're going to have sex now."

Oh,

Okay.

Santana can do that.

She just maybe needs to amend that little mantra from earlier.

_Fuck_.

_Me._

Much better.

***o*O*o***

Santana feels warm.

And sticky.

But mostly warm.

She shifts her shoulder blades slightly and it feels like she's pulled muscles she didn't even know existed.

Her head hurts a little though so she tries to keep her eyes squinted closed, turning her body into the source of the warmth surrounding her.

When her hand brushes against something soft, and pliant, and topped with a nipple her eyes snap open.

Her jaw drops a little, brown eyes widening ridiculously as she comes nearly face to face with a breast.

And no, we're not talking KFC here.

By sheer reflex, her hand squeezes experimentally and a rusty chuckle floats down from somewhere above her head.

Santana's head jerks up and smoky-blue eyes gaze back at her, crinkled at the edges. "This is the nicest wake-up call I've received in a while."

"Dios mio," Santana murmurs, only just now realizing she is practically lying on Brittany's other breast. She's actually pretty much draped over the woman, which, yeah, that explains the stickiness.

"Now, where have I heard that before?" Brittany teases, shifting a little under the sheets. "Oh, yeah," she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Here."

Santana squeaks, not expecting the sudden though not unwelcome illicit touch from Brittany. "Holy shit," she gasps out, pushing herself away and tugging the sheet as close to her body as humanly possible.

Brittany's not so modest.

She rolls onto her side, the sheet falling away and revealing her bare torso to Santana.

The Latina blushes bright red.

"Aww," Brittany pouts. "No happy morning fun time?"

"Brittany," she says, swallowing tightly. "Did I – Did we…" she gestures vaguely. "…you know?"

Brittany's look is a dubious one. "Not to sound cocky or anything but there's no way you would've forgotten _that_."

And she's right, too.

Santana hasn't forgotten.

In fact, she hasn't forgotten so much that she's now re-living the entire night in her head, scene by sexy scene and _oh my God_ Brittany has some magic fingers.

"But…if your memory _is_ really that fuzzy, I'd be more than willing to 'help you remember'," Brittany grins, not really waiting for Santana's okay as she slides over her body again, yanking the sheet out of Santana's hands.

Santana holds her breath as the blonde's lips trail from her neck to her chest to her stomach and then lower, the air completely escaping her lungs with the first swipe of a devilish tongue, and Santana's pretty sure that this right here did not happen last night.

She should probably be taking notes.

Puck's picture is sitting there on the night stand, his smiling visage just another reminder of what she's doing and who's she's doing it with.

Santana slams the picture down, her eyes squinting shut.

She'd worry about the Puck thing later.

She's gotta commit this shit to memory.

***o*O*o***

"Can you just not talk?"

Rachel scoffs.

Quinn rolls her eyes, fiddling with the keys on her ring. "You just have a tendency to come off brash and insensitive, and apparently Santana is teetering on the edge of depression or something. You could push her off."

"I am nothing if not sensitive, Quinn Fabray," Rachel sniffs. "You off all people should know that. And it's the fifth key over. God."

Quinn glares at her, but finally manages to get Santana's apartment door open. "I just hope she's okay. Mercedes said Puck came over late last night, completely zonked out of his mind. Sam spent the whole time patting him on the back while he sobbed about 'the one that got away'."

"Well, if he was a better boyfriend he wouldn't be crying now, would he?" Rachel says, stepping over some clothes as she turns into the kitchen area. "She's probably still sleeping, Quinn. I'm going to put these bagels in the toaster oven."

Quinn nods and heads off to Santana's bedroom, kicking the discarded shoes out of the way before pushing the door open and catching an eyeful.

"Quinn!" Santana squeals, scrambling for the sheets and tugging them up over herself.

"Wait," Brittany's muffled voice floats out from underneath the sheets and –ahem – between her legs. "I can't breathe."

She shuffles under the covers until she finally pops free on the other side, head poking out comically. "Hi again," Brittany says brightly, smiling at Quinn.

Quinn covers her smile with her hand as Rachel comes in, bagels and coffee in hand.

"Good morning, Santana," she says, trailing off comically when she takes in the scene. "…and blonde woman from last night."

"Good morning. Oooh," Brittany says, scrambling out of bed with the sheet still wrapped around her body. "Is that strawberry cream cheese?" she asks, grabbing half of a prepped bagel and taking a nice-sized bite out of one. "It's my favorite," the tall blonde adds warmly. "Well, among other things," she amends, wiggling her eyebrows at the still mortified Santana.

And Santana – even though she's still unbelievably embarrassed – can't help smiling back.

"I totally hope you don't take this the wrong way, San," Quinn starts, sharing an amused look with Rachel. "But, way to upgrade."


	22. Do Over

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Hi. So, I've decided to post this un-Beta'd, so any and all typos/mistakes are completely my own and I take full responsibilty for them. This popped into my head while watching the first ten seconds or so of Ne-Yo's "Mad" video, so I guess some credit should be extended there. Let me know what you guys think. And, as always, thanks for reading/reviewing/favoriting/replying to messages/all of it. You don't know the greatness that you all are. Thanks again. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"<em>What time did you say again?"<em>

Brittany rolls her eyes, switching the phone to her left ear as she waits for her smoothie to be prepared. "You're not paying attention to me."

"_I am,"_ Mike insists, his voice whining across the line. _"I'm just paying more attention to Mario Kart. You know how distracting Rainbow Road can be."_

Brittany nods, scratching the back of her neck absently. "All the pretty colors."

"_Exactly. Plus, it's not like you're talking about anything remarkably important…"_

"Ugh. Why are we friends?" Brittany groans, grabbing her drink and smiling kindly at the server.

Quinn smiles back.

"_Because I'm the only one who can decipher the crazy things you say?" _Mike supplies, still sounding distracted. _"And our hotness factor when we hang out is like, off the charts."_

Brittany grins, grabbing a straw and giving her smoothie a test drive. "We are pretty damn hot."

"_The hottest," _he agrees. _"Okay, I've gotten blown up twice. We have to end this phone call."_

"Whatever, _Michael_," she says, grinning when he grumbles. He hates when she uses his whole name. "Just make sure you're at the pizza place at seven. He's gonna be there tonight."

"_Got it. Pizza Heaven. Seven. Bye."_

"Bye," Brittany says, chuckling quietly to herself as she exits Jamba Juice. She pushes open the exit door, holding it for someone on their way in.

"Thanks," the person says and Brittany nods it off, stepping onto the crowded sidewalk of the city.

She's still struggling with her phone, forgetting momentarily which button ends calls and which one starts them – it's the same button – and she absent-mindedly steps off the curb without thinking.

That is the last mistake Brittany S. Pierce will ever make in life.

***o*O*o***

All she sees is white.

Everything is white.

The floor.

The ceiling.

The walls.

All white.

It's like being inside of a very healthy, _very_ bleached tooth.

Brittany pushes herself into a standing position and realizes with a start that her clothes are different.

Her striped shorts and polka-dot shirt have been replaced with a long white robe and her feet are bare.

Her phone's gone and so are her earbuds, and her fingers and wrists are devoid of any jewelry.

And just when she didn't think things could get any weirder –

"Do not worry, my child," a deep voice resonates within the empty white chamber. "You are safe now."

Brittany gulps. "Wh-who are you?" she asks cautiously, her blue eyes wide.

She jumps suddenly when a hand touches her shoulder from behind and she startlingly spins around.

"What's the matter, Pierce?" the woman says, her smile more of a smirk. "You don't remember me?"

Brittany blinks, surprised to see her old cheerleading coach. "Coach Sylvester?"

"One in the same," Coach Sue Sylvester grins, speaking through a megaphone that mimics the voice from before again.

"You're _God_?"

Sue opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by another familiar person. "Don't even say it, Sue," Holly Holiday says, miraculously appearing from nowhere as well. "And what have I told you about using that voice changer? The big guy is _not _a fan and you're already on a short leash."

"Aw, but it's so much fun," Sue chuckles good-naturedly.

"Wait," Brittany shakes her head, trying to make sense of what's going on. "Where am I?"

Sue raises an eyebrow. "Do you really need to ask that question?" she asks, gesturing around. "Just look at the place."

"I'm not-"

"You're in Heaven, Blue Eyes," Miss Holiday says warmly, stepping up next to Sue.

Brittany's not sure she believes that.

"_You_ made it to Heaven?" she asks Sue incredulously.

Sue shrugs. "Barely."

"But-but-but," Brittany starts, none of this making sense to her. "I was just at Jamba Juice. I got a smoothie. I was talking to Mike. I can't be-"

"Dead?" Sue fills in, somewhat menacingly.

"Sue," Holly warns.

"What?" Sue squawks, a little fed up. "It's time for some tough love. The sooner Blondie here wraps her head around it the sooner I can get back to watching reruns of WINGS. Get it? _Wings_? Ha. Ha. I crack myself up."

"Brittany, sweetie," Holly says gently, draping an arm around the younger woman's shoulders. "I know it's hard to believe but, it's true. You are dead." She waves her hand over the floor and it opens up – sort of – the scene revealing a chaotic intersection with an ambulance, an unmoving bus, and a body on a gurney.

When the hand slips off the gurney and Brittany sees the lifeless limb and – more importantly – the promise ring on its pointer finger she gasps audibly.

"But I can't be dead," she says, turning away from the scene. "There's so many things I haven't done yet. Like, track down Kevin Costner and let him know how much he sucks."

"Didn't the academy do that after _Waterworld_?" Sue asks.

"Or, find the Golden Ticket so I can go to Willy Wonka's factory," Brittany adds.

Holly turns to Sue with her eyebrow raised. "I'm not touching that one," Brittany's former Cheer coach says.

Brittany pouts, crossing her arms as she continues. "I haven't even had doggystyle sex, yet."

"Pretty sure you've got that one covered, Britt," Sue informs her. "I walked in on you and the dancing Asian that one time, remember?"

"_That's_ what that is?"

Holly and Sue share a look.

"Yes," Holly states slowly, turning back to Brittany. "What did you think it was?"

"Sex with Snoop Dogg," Brittany answers with a shrug. "Or with Brian from _Family Guy_."

Sue just shakes her head, surprisingly speechless, and Holly, well, Holly just decides to ignore that statement. "Okay, well, the only reason you're here Brittany is that you completely missed something on your last day on earth. Something really important. Something like your soul mate. And, well, the man upstairs doesn't really like when people ignore fate so he smote you."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. You ever watch _1000 Ways to Die_,"Sue says excitedly, but Brittany shakes her head, unknowing. "Well, anyway, the really funny ones are where the big G-O-D got p.o.'d because those people had ignored fate. He really doesn't like when his best laid plans go to waste."

Brittany blinks. "So," she starts slowly. "I'm here because God got mad that I didn't meet my soul mate?"

Holly and Sue nod.

"I know I'm usually skating on the wrong side of the ice but what kind of crap is that? How does he know I wasn't going to meet him later? My soul mate? I mean, I have time, you know?"

"Nope, you don't actually," Sue tells her, pointing upward. "And I'd keep my voice down if I were you."

"That was _the_ moment, Brittany," Holly says. "Your one moment. And you missed it."

Brittany pouts again, sitting down on the floor, not even caring about the stupid white robe. "It's not fair," she mumbles, crossing her arms again and kicking at…well, nothing, as the tears start to fall.

Holly gives Sue a pointed look and the other woman rolls her eyes grandly, but follows Holly so that they're both seated on either side of Brittany.

"Actually," Holly starts, leaning in closer to Brittany. "I thought it wasn't fair either and I had a little talk with the big guy and he admitted that he may have been a little quick with his trigger finger this time."

"Really?" Brittany asks, wiping at her eyes and sniffling.

"Yeah," Holly nods, giving her a little smile. "So, he decided to give you another chance at life. Basically: a do-over."

"Do-over?"

"Yes," Holly nods. "You get to relive your last day on Earth – the day where you were fated to meet your soul mate. Your only objective on this day is to not let that moment pass you by again. Do you think you can handle that?"

"I can," Brittany says, nodding eagerly. "Oh, please. Just one more try. I'll do it, I promise."

"Okay then," Holly smiles. "Close your eyes."

Brittany does as she says and all of a sudden she feels very sleepy, like she's been running for miles, baking in the sun, eaten until she'd sated, and drank two bottles of her favorite wine all in one go.

She's falling…fast, but her eyelids are so heavy that it's like they're glued shut and she can't do anything but let it happen; just keep free-falling into nothing.

***o*O*o***

"Brittany!"

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Brittany awakes with a start, pushing up from her bed in reflex.

She feels the dream she just had slipping away and regrets it because judging by the state of her bed it was a doozey.

_Thump. Thump._

"Brittany!"

"Oh crap," Brittany mutters, the voice she hears finally seeping into her brain.

She totally forgot she was supposed to be doing breakfast with Mercedes and Tina.

"Just a second!" she calls out, instantly hopping out of bed and trying to find something to wear.

There are not a lot of clean clothes available because she kind of hates her apartment complex's laundry room and she still has a pretty difficult time with the settings on the dryer.

What is fluff anyway?

And what is with the setting 'less dry'?

Who wants damp clothes?

Finally she just decides on her blue and white striped shorts and her black and white polka dot top and dashes to the door, breathless. "Hey guys. Ready to go eat breakfast? I sure am because I totally didn't forget that we were going to breakfast this morning," she says while adjusting her toggle hat.

Mercedes and Tina share a look; the one Brittany knows means 'She's being all weird and crazy again but it's okay because she's kind of adorable'.

"Well, we're picking up Finn on the way," Mercedes tells her, pressing the down button on the elevator panel. "I don't know why but he seems hell bent on going to breakfast with us this morning."

Something itches at the back of Brittany's neck, but she scratches it without thinking much of it.

***o*O*o***

"Hey guys," Finn grins, clamoring into the back of Tina's relatively small car. He scoots in even closer to Brittany than necessary. "Hi Brittany," he says shyly.

"Hey," Brittany says distractedly. That itch is really annoying her now. Maybe she's got a rash.

"So I figured we'd go to the diner and scoop up breakfast," Mercedes says. "And then head over to Kurt's thing. Apparently he and Blaine are having a naming ceremony for the dog."

"Sounds good," Tina nods, not really caring.

"Yeah. As long as we're done in time for my Jamba Juice run," Brittany says, using her index finger to soothe the itch. "Oh, but I have to go to the music store. I need some new earbuds. I probably dropped them or something again."

"Can I come with?" Finn asks with far too much enthusiasm.

Only Mercedes and Tina catch it though.

***o*O*o***

Breakfast…was awkward as hell.

Even Brittany could see that and for Brittany to notice anything it'd have to in neon colors surrounded by blinking lights and accompanied by a grandstand so, the awkwardness, was blatantly obvious.

It starts with Finn's insistence that he stay attached to Brittany which, normally wouldn't annoy her, but it was hot as hell and they were in a ceiling fan-conditioned diner, with long glass windows and a steadily heated griddle, so his lumbering form pressed up against hers was not a welcome experience.

Couple that with the fact that he kept wanting to share his food with her and she was one chicken nugget away from becoming angry Brittany.

Thankfully, the outing ended without major incident.

Major because there was one minor incident where her water glass may have been upended on his lap but, to be fair, he had been complaining about the heat.

Now, though, they were all headed to Kurt and Blaine's.

Finn – thank God – a safe distance away from her in the front seat this time and Mercedes to her side.

Now Kurt – and by extension Blaine – are relatively loaded.

Of all of the Glee kids – her, Mercedes, Tina, Blaine, Finn, Mike, Lauren and Kurt – he'd easily become the most successful taking his one man Broadway show _Just Kurt_ to the top and beyond.

So, their place in the Hamptons was to die for.

"Hi Britt," Kurt grins, air kissing her on both cheeks and stepping back to admire her outfit. "Always staying ahead of the fashion curve, aren't we?" he says, nodding his approval. "I swear Blaine. One week she wears it, the next it's on the runway in Paris. You really should harvest your genius, Honey," he tells her, smiling widely.

Brittany shrugs bashfully, dragging the toe of her Converse across the carpet.

"I hope you all don't mind," Blaine says, handing out drinks. "Kurt and I didn't have enough time to prepare one of our culinary masterpieces so we're ordering out. But, this pizza place is the best in the city. You're going to love it."

"I don't doubt that," Mike says, swallowing down a too big gulp of wine. "You dudes have excellent taste."

"So where's this puppy we're going to name?" Mercedes asks, looking around the immaculate and large living room.

"Puppy?" Blaine asks, looking confused. "We didn't say it was a puppy."

Kurt grins and moves to another room, speaking loud enough to be heard. "We went to this charity event for Save the Animals. And well, this guy was up for adoption and when we saw him we just couldn't resist," he says, sounding nearer again.

Finn nearly spits out his wine when he sees the size of the creature.

Mike jumps up into Tina's arms…and she drops him.

"I thought you said dog not horse," Mercedes almost yells, standing up so as to not be eyelevel with the beast.

"Mr. Ed," Brittany says, snapping her fingers and looking around. "It's the perfect name, right?"

"He is not a horse," Kurt says, scratching the dog between the ears. "He's a Great Dane and yeah, they're relatively large but he's as passive as a fly," he coos, squatting down a half an inch so that he's eyelevel with him. "Aren't you? Yes you are. Yes you are."

"You can name him Hans?" Brittany suggests, only getting blank looks in response. "What? Hans J. Wegner was a great Dane."

Brittany's getting those looks again, only this time she feels a little uncomfortable but thankfully the doorbell rings and she excuses herself to get it.

"Hi. Thanks for ordering a pizza from Pizza Heaven. Where the pizza is so good, you'll swear it's from God," a monotonous voice drones out, holding a pizza box in her face. After a minute or two, the guy actually looks up from the phone he'd distracted himself with and the grin on his face is instant. "Well, hey," he drawls.

Brittany smiles back. "Hey."

"Brittany," Blaine calls from within. "That's the pizza, right? It's prepaid so just bring it on in."

"Boyfriend?" the guy asks, nodding into the house.

Brittany scrunches up her nose. "No way."

"Do you have one?" he asks, leaning on the door jamb and keeping the pizzas just out of reach when she grabs for them.

Her cheeks heat up when she notices him brazenly checking her out.

"Nope."

"Awesome," the guy says, reaching into his back pocket for something. He produces a business card for Pizza Heaven. "Well, I totally think that you – hottie without a boyfriend – should come down to the joint tonight at seven. My band and I are going to be performing and I think I could use a little extra motivation."

Brittany grins, taking the card, and he finally hands over the pizza. "I'll… think about it."

"Okay," he smiles, stepping back blindly. "You do that…Brittany?"

"Wait," she calls out when he turns to leave. "What's your name?"

"You can just call me Puck."

***o*O*o***

"So, what did you need to get here?" Brittany asks him, inspecting the earbuds section. There are just so many choices and colors.

It's like looking at an electronic rainbow.

Or, you know, _not_ like that at all.

Finn looks a little startled. "Um, what?"

"What did you need? I mean, you came here to get something, right?"

"Oh," Finn says, his cheeks reddening. "Yeah, of course. I came here to get, uh-" He randomly grabs something off of a CD rack. "This."

Brittany looks confused. "_The Best of Ricky Martin_?" she reads.

Finn swallows. "Yeah. I love to uh…shake my bon-bon."

"O….kay," Brittany says, turning back to her original task. "Weird," she mutters under her breath.

Soon, she has her earbuds and Finn has his 'to die for' Ricky Martin CD and they're at the checkout, waiting in line.

It's weird but that itch at the back of Brittany's neck is burning big time, and she rakes her nails across it…hard.

"Did you find everything you needed?" the saleswoman asks, her eyes on Brittany.

"Yeah," Brittany answers distractedly, still scratching as she fiddles around in her pocket.

"Are you sure?" the woman asks and Brittany finally catches her eye, her frown of annoyance dropping the moment they make eye contact.

"I'm…" she starts, the itch turning into a slow burn. "I'm pretty sure, yeah," she finally manages to say.

The other woman looks amused and she tosses her chestnut locks behind her shoulder as she presses some buttons on the register. "Well, if you forget something, or if you need anything, you know where to find me," the woman says, holding out her hand.

Brittany stares at her hand for the longest time before she realizes with a blush of embarrassment that the woman's only asking for money.

"Here," she says, dropping some bills onto the outstretched palm, gasping quietly when the woman's hand momentarily closes over her fingers.

The woman chuckles and hands her her change and Brittany high-tails it out of there as soon as she gets her merchandise, Finn right on her heels.

"That…was weird," he says.

Brittany's chest is heaving and that burning itch is starting up again. "Tell me about it," she mutters.

"That chick was hitting on you," he breathes, choking on a subdued laugh.

Brittany frowns. "Don't call her 'chick'. I'm sure she has a name."

"Yeah," he says, still looking awestruck. "I didn't look at her name tag though. I was too in awe that she was actually hitting on you…and you…you were letting her," he accuses, although not maliciously.

It's all too much for Brittany though and she stiffens momentarily. "I did not."

"Yes you did," he goes on. "You just stood there while she was saying stuff and… looking…at you."

"Well, what was I supposed to do Finn? 'Cause a scene? Tell her that 'while I'm flattered, I'm sorry but my see doesn't saw that way'?"

"You're right. You're right," Finn concedes, his shock finally wearing off. "It just threw me."

"You and me, both," she says, her shoulders finally relaxing. "Maybe I should go back," she says, suddenly, surprising both Finn and herself with that one. "I mean, to clear some things up. I wouldn't want her to think that she's done something wrong. I did run out of there pretty fast."

Finn nods, mulling it over. "It couldn't hurt. And that way it won't be weird the next time you go there."

"Yeah," Brittany says, already turning back as she nods. "Let's go."

Her phone goes off just then, Bruno Mars' "The Lazy Song" playing loudly.

"Oops," she stops, reaching for the device. "That's my Jamba Juice ringtone," she says, steering her body in the opposite direction. "I'll catch up with you later, Finn."

"But…" he calls after her already-too-far-away-to-hear-him form, "I like juice too!"

***o*O*o***

"_His name is _Puck?"

Brittany winces a little at Mike's shrieking tone. "Were you captivated when you were younger or something because your voice just got way too high."

"_The word you mean to use is castrated and no, I wasn't. The sheer unbelievable…ness of you electing to hang out with a guy named Puck is doing this to my voice_."

"I think it sounds cute," she says, smiling into the distance dreamily. The lady at the counter catches her eye and smiles and Brittany smiles back, nodding in approval when the woman turns to make her regular.

Her neck starts itching again.

She makes a mental note to schedule a doctor's appointment.

"_I think it sounds stupid. I mean, he must be a jarhead or something_."

"You're ridiculous."

"_Mmm hmm_."

"And you're not even being a good friend right now? It's not like I've had that many options. It's either this or Finn or that guy in 2B with the pubic hair fro."

"_Yep_."

"Anyway, you're coming with me so it'll be cool. If he's a total stinky-head, you can bail me out."

"_What time did you say again?"_

Brittany rolls her eyes, switching the phone to her left ear as she waits for her smoothie to be prepared. "You're not paying attention to me."

"_I am,"_ Mike insists, his voice whining across the line. _"I'm just paying more attention to Mario Kart. You know how distracting Rainbow Road can be."_

Brittany nods. "All the pretty colors."

"_Exactly. Plus, it's not like you're talking about anything remarkably important…"_

"Ugh. Why are we friends?" Brittany groans, grabbing her drink and smiling kindly at the server.

Quinn smiles back.

"_Because I'm the only one who can decipher the crazy things you say?" _Mike supplies, still sounding distracted. _"And our hotness factor when we hang out is like, off the charts."_

Brittany grins, grabbing a straw and giving her smoothie a test drive. She doesn't really have to. Quinn makes them perfect every time. "We are pretty damn hot."

"_The hottest," _he agrees. _"Okay, I've gotten blown up twice. We have to end this phone call."_

"Whatever, _Michael_," she says, grinning when he grumbles. He hates when she uses his whole name. "Just make sure you're at the pizza place at seven. He's gonna be there tonight."

"_Got it. Pizza Heaven. Seven. Bye."_

"Bye," Brittany says, chuckling quietly to herself as she exits Jamba Juice. The annoying itch kicks up ten-fold as she pushes open the exit door, holding it for someone on their way in.

"Thanks," the person says and Brittany nods it off, stepping onto the crowded sidewalk of the city, and wondering if anyone would think her odd if she slaps her neck right now.

She's just about to step off the curb when a voice calls out to her, drawing her attention.

"Hey!" they say. "You dropped your earbuds."

Brittany turns around and the person she'd held the door open for is standing there, holding her brand-new purchase and grinning.

Brittany smiles sheepishly and starts forward, not noticing the bicyclist heading her way until it's too late and her newly made smoothie is splattered all over the ground.

She frowns, looking after the bicyclist and then squints when she realizes the person's wearing a red tracksuit and looks a lot like her dearly – yeah, right – departed former cheer coach.

"Bite me Blondie!" the cyclist calls out and her frown reappears until a chuckle scratches against her ear.

"I'm sorry," the woman says, stepping back out of the door and carefully walking back over to her. "I don't mean to laugh but that pout is too adorable."

Brittany's eyes widen and the itch? Well, it's still there, but it's cooled down now.

It's just a slight irritation right beneath the surface of her skin.

"I can buy you another… if you'd like?" the woman asks tentatively, seemingly unable to read Brittany's behavior.

Brittany doesn't know why, what even possesses her to do so, but, for some reason, she nods and when the woman grins at her, large and wide and amazingly bright, the itch disappears completely.

"Come on," the woman says, reaching out a hand and grasping hers, tugging her into Jamba Juice without another moment's hesitation.

"So, what's your name?" Brittany asks, holding the door open, smiling in return this time when the woman steps through.

"Santana."

Neither one of them notice the bus passing by behind them.

***o*O*o***

"See?"

"Shut up."

"I told you she would get it."

"And I said, 'Shut. Up.'."

"You're such a crankypants," Holly says, rolling her eyes as they watch Brittany and Santana from across the street. "Could it be because you didn't get your do-over right?"

"I've said it once and I'll say it again. Will Schuester and I are _not_ soul mates. And I don't care what the 'Boss' has to say about that," she grumps, using her fingers to air-quote the word 'boss'. She crosses her arms in defiance and openly glares at Holly.

"Watch it Missy. I told you once, you're on a short leash. And Lucifer's been chomping at the bit to get a chance with you."

Sue rolls her eyes at the empty threat and watches as Brittany blushes brightly when Santana slyly slips a hand over hers. "Do you think she'll ever figure out that you're 'Him'?"

"Nah," Holly shrugs and stands, readying to cross the street. "No one ever does."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note #2: <strong>Oh, and here's a snippet of something else I've been working on, tentatively titled: _Post-Season Three Speculative Fic_

***o*O*o***

"Oof," Santana grunts, swinging her carry-on bag over her shoulder.

Brittany is standing next to her, still trying to get the handle on her rolling suitcase to let up.

She couldn't believe they'd actually done it; made it to New York.

It took a lot to get to this moment and now that she's here, nothing, _nothing_, can bring her down.

"Santana!"

Except that.

Santana flinches, grabbing Brittany's hand and pulling her through the airport terminal. "C'mon Britt-Britt."

Brittany looks over her shoulder as Santana moves them swiftly through the throngs of bodies. "But someone's calling you."

"Ignore it," Santana grunts, hiking the bag closer and trying not to slip on the shiny floor.

She should have worn sneakers.

"It sounds like-"

"Ladies," Rachel says, suddenly right in front of them.

Santana curses, rearing back and putting a hand to her chest as Brittany squeals excitedly, throwing her arms around the shorter girl. "Hi Rachel!"

"Hello Brittany," Rachel enthuses, hugging her back.

"You are a leprechaun," Santana grumbles, prying them apart. She's not used to Brittany hugging things, okay? "Where'd you come from? I thought we left you back there," she says, hooking a thumb behind her.

Rachel smiles, smoothing out her skirt. "I took some ventriloquism lessons over the summer. I've gotten really adept at throwing my voice."

"Can you catch it too?" Brittany asks.

Santana just groans, shuffling forward again, this time with Rachel in tow.

"It doesn't quite work like that, Brittany," Rachel tells her, moving along. "So, are you guys excited?"

"Super excited," the blonde says.

"I was doing fine until about a minute ago, Berry," Santana snips.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Santana. I say we just bury the hatchet right now. I mean, it's not like we're going to be able to avoid each other."

"But I can try my damnedest though," the Latina smirks.

"Well then I guess you'll be seeing a lot less of Brittany."

Santana stops, an arm bar going out against Brittany's stomach and Rachel's chest. "Whatchu talkin' bout, Midget?"

"Didn't Brittany tell you? She and I are roommates," Rachel says, hooking an arm around Brittany's petite waist.

Santana's eye twitches.

Brittany claps her hands together excitedly. "It's gonna be so much fun."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note #3:<strong> So, yeah, if I had my way, I'd write them all in college (everyone that's on the show now pre-Season 3) and move on from there so, we'll see what I shake out of my head, yeah? Let me know what you guys think.


	23. Mission Accomplished

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I hardly ever do dedications, right? But this one is dedicated to Don'.Ask for this awesome fic prompt that kicked yet another FFT pre-determined prompt off my list. If we keep going at this rate, there may just be a Fifty _More_ First Times. Let's get some reviews on this one. Reaching the midway point and I'd really appreciate some feedback. To those of you reading and reviewing, thank you very much. Okay, here's the update.

* * *

><p><strong>*o*O*o*<strong>

"Are you sure you don't want to come out?"

Santana almost swallows her tongue.

She's careful as ever when she turns around to face her roommate, eyes as wide as saucers. "What?" she squeaks.

Quinn gives her a small grin, even though the rest of her face is saying 'you're weird'. "Out? To the party?"

"Oh," Santana says, snorting a little in relief at the mix-up. "No. I'm fine."

Quinn rolls her eyes and crosses their small dorm room until she's close enough to spin the other girl's chair around. "You're not fine," Quinn says, getting eyelevel. "In fact, you're the opposite of fine. All you do is go to class and come back to this closet this university has the audacity to call a room and stare at the four walls until you bore yourself to sleep. That, my friend, is not fine."

"I don't feel like going out," Santana shrugs, looking away for a barely identifiable moment.

"You _never_ feel like going out," Quinn says in exasperation. "Ever. I mean, it wouldn't kill you to come break bread with us college folk. Live a little and kiss some boys. You only do college once."

And there's the problem.

You see, Santana doesn't really want to kiss boys.

Like, at all.

Like, she's fairly certain that she only wants to kiss girls.

For example, if Quinn doesn't give her some space in a few minutes, Santana may very well kiss her.

But, the whole, she wants to kiss girls thing is still relatively new.

As in, well, she's never done it.

Kissing Rachel Berry at Glee camp that one time _so_ doesn't count.

In fact, she's pretty much terrified of actually doing it, because doing it may cement something in herself that she's only ever whispered in the deepest darkest corners of her deepest darkest dreams and she doesn't think she's ready to do that just yet.

But seriously, Quinn needs to move.

"Rain check, Q," she says, gently pushing her away. "Just for tonight."

Quinn still looks reluctant, but she shrugs, backing away and Santana can breathe easier again. "I'm totally holding you to that, Lopez. Oh, and eat something other than Ramen tonight. I will not have your mom bitching me out on her next visit because you've dropped another pound."

"Okay," Santana says, rolling her eyes.

When Quinn finally closes the door behind her she lets her head drop onto the desk.

It's been getting harder and harder lately to deny these…urges…she guesses they are.

It's not that she even likes Quinn like that, she just wants to get it out of her system so that she can know once and for all if she's…if it's…

"God," she groans aloud, squinting her eyes closed. "I can't even bring myself to _think_ it."

Her head pops up suddenly and she pushes herself around in her swivel chair, spinning slightly, wondering if the centrifugal force is enough to shake those thoughts out of her head.

And when that doesn't work, she rummages her DVD collection and picks up her cell phone, crappy/sappy movies and pizza will totally do the trick.

***o*O*o***

She's reaching for yet another tissue when Allie finally remembers Noah and her door rattles on its hinges from someone knocking _way _too hard.

She distractedly blows her nose and calls out 'Just a minute' slipping on her Scooby Doo slippers and frankly caring very little for her appearance when she opens the door.

And she instantly regrets that decision when her stomach flips over.

Did she call the pizza place or Hugh Hefner?

"'Sup," the girl in front of her grins, chewing noisily on some gum and carelessly holding a small pizza. Her iPod volume is up far too loud, Santana realizes, as she can easily make out the opening strains to Tegan and Sara's _Feel It in My Bones_.

She takes in the other girl's…outfit?

Well it has to be because it's certainly not a uniform what with the extremely short shorts and the knee socks and the legs that go on for days and days and days-

"That'll be," the other girl says, squinting at the receipt stapled to the top of the pizza box. "Ten dot eighty-two."

"Oh, right," Santana snaps to attention, realizing with a start that she'd been staring and _caught_ staring so now she's flushing as red as a rose. She ducks back into her room to snatch the eleven dollars she'd placed on her desk and happens to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

The _horror_.

Her hair's tossed atop her head in a messy bun and her eyes are bloodshot from crying and her nose is a little red, and, _and_, to top it all off, she's wearing her _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles _sleep set, her cousin had given to her as a joke.

It was her favorite show as a pre-adolescent.

No one knew it was because of April O'Neal.

Point: she can't go back to that girl looking like this.

Granted, she probably could seeing as she has no way of knowing if the other girl's even remotely paying attention to her, but, what if she is?

"Uh," the girl calls into the room. "It's only ten dollars and eighty-two cents. I only say the dot sometimes to mess with people."

Santana quickly grabs some tissues to blot at her eyes and throws a baseball cap atop her head before walking back to the door and holding out the two bills. "Thank you," she says, somehow finding her voice.

The blonde girl smiles warmly, handing over the pizza box. "Thank you," she says, stuffing the bills in the front of her pocket…somehow. "For the tip," she grins, winking brazenly as she literally floats away.

Santana can't fight the smile that splits her face in two and she watches the girl leave until she decides that she's being just a tad bit too creepy.

***o*O*o***

A week later, Quinn has seemingly given up on her quest to get Santana out of their dorm room, so when ten o'clock rolls around, she just grabs her jacket and leaves, calling out a quick 'I'll see you later.'

Santana's glad because Santana has a plan of sorts and going out with Quinn will pretty much ruin in before it even starts, and she really wants it to start.

You see, she figures that if she can order a pizza at or around the same time and day that she did the week before; she can see the gorgeous pizza delivery girl again and maybe, you know, say something this time, instead of eking out monosyllabic grunts like some kind of Neanderthal.

So maybe Santana's finally seen that thing hiding in the corner of her deepest darkest dreams and it turned and gave her a full Ellen DeGeneres monologue and she decided that, huh, maybe it's not that scary after all. She determined to finally do something about it.

And it's not like she thinks that the girl is batting on team Sappho or anything because, well, she's far too gorgeous in Santana's opinion and Santana actually likes her so, yeah, she can pretty much count on her crush pining for Justin Bieber or something…

Wait, wouldn't that make her kind of gay?

Door's knocking.

Santana checks out her reflection in the mirror, pleased with what she sees, before heading over to the door.

She's dressed much better this time in a pair of skinny jeans and a simple, gray tee and her hair doesn't look like a crow's nest so…success.

She pulls open the door and…frowns.

There's no one there.

"Coming!" A voice calls out from down the hall and Santana looks to her left to see the blonde from before jogging up, wiping a droplet of water away from her chin. "Your elevator's broken so I had to take the stairs and…you live on the sixteenth floor," she explains breathlessly, hands on her knees. "There's twenty-four stairs for each flight and there's sixteen flights so that's…" the blonde trails off, getting a little cross-eyed as she tries to do the math in her head. "…a lot of stairs," she finishes sheepishly.

Santana finds herself chuckling in spite of herself. "It is," she agrees.

"Yeah," the blonde murmurs shyly, taking the pizza box out of the warmer. "That'll be ten eighty-two," she mumbles, her cheeks red from both exertion and embarrassment.

Santana doesn't have to leave the doorway this time, digging into her pocket to grab the five and ten-dollar bills she'd stashed there earlier. "I remember," she says, trying to sound sultry even though it comes out a lot more shy than she'd intended.

The blonde stands up a little straighter. "I bet," she says, taking the bills and reaching down further to get change, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.

"Oh no," Santana waves her off, figuring out what she's trying to do. "You keep it."

"Thanks," the blonde grins, tucking the money down again and handing over the pizza. "Well, I'll see you around then," she says, once the trade's over.

"I hope so," Santana says, surprising herself, but it's so worth the nerves when the blonde – well, she's finally managed to read her nametag, so – Brittany reddens again.

***o*O*o***

A week later and her dorm's elevators are still broken, which means Quinn – who, in spite of having a perfect physique, is about as into exercise as Santana is into penises – has decided to stay in, which may put a damper on Santana's plans.

She was hoping to maybe flirt a little bit more with…Brittany.

Even thinking about it makes her break out into a dopey grin which only makes Quinn ask her questions and she's pretty sure that uber-Catholic Quinn would not be able to wrap her head around this so…dilemma.

But she doesn't want to pass up on a chance with Brittany either.

She sighs, loudly.

What a catch-22.

"Hey San?" Quinn calls from her bed, still absently flicking through television channels.

"Hmm?"

"Where'd you get that pizza from last week?"

Santana swallows thickly. "Pizza Shed."

"Can you order some more? It was really good."

Santana grins.

Decision made.

***o*O*o***

Santana's standing in the doorway this time because, well, she has to in order for this to work and she's checking her watch like a madwoman, too.

It usually doesn't take this long.

But just as she's about to maybe freak out and call the pizza place and somehow – without sounding like a maniac – demand to know if Brittany had quit or not, a familiar frazzled blonde head pops out from the double doors leading to the staircase.

She's flushed again and is about to bee-line straight for the water fountain when Santana swallows down all the butterflies in her stomach and speaks.

"Brittany!" she calls out.

The blonde looks up at her name, confused, but her frown soon gives way to a smile and she smirks at the water bottle Santana's waving in the air.

"Thought you might need this," she says, brandishing the bottle and Brittany takes it, running a thumb across the label and grinning.

"So, we're on a first name basis, now, Santana?" she says, popping the cap on the bottle and fighting back a laugh when the other girl's eyes widen.

"How did you-"

"It's on the receipt, silly," she says, swallowing down about half the water in one go.

"Oh," Santana says lamely, her face heating up.

"Yeah," Brittany says, smiling slightly and looking at Santana in such a way that the dark-haired girl feels kind of exposed. "Anyway, your pizza," she says, picking the box up off the floor. "Here it is."

"Um, thanks," Santana says, swallowing against a dry throat.

They're staring at each other now, barely there smiles on one another's faces.

Brittany breaks first, her bluer than blue eyes darting down to Santana's lips.

Santana licks them, her eyes darting to the blonde's where she catches Brittany mirroring her actions.

Suddenly they're a lot closer than they were before and just when the poor pizza box is about to be crushed, Quinn steps out beside her and snatches it away. "Finally," she breathes, taking the box into the room with her barely even noticing Brittany. "I'm starved."

Brittany snaps back away from Santana like a rubber band and the mood casually shifts between them again, once more aware of their surroundings.

"My roommate," Santana mutters, offering up a little smile.

"I figured," Brittany smiles back, eyes twinkling. "Well, uh, thanks for the water," she says, moving to walk away.

"I didn't pay you yet," Santana says, reaching into her pocket.

Brittany grins, holding up the water bottle. "Trust me," she says, smirking just a little. "It was a fair trade."

***o*O*o***

Santana's not crazy.

The fact that she went to great lengths to make sure that Quinn is out of the dorm tonight only proves that she's logical and rational and the fact that Quinn maybe possibly prevented their moment last week has absolutely nothing to do with it.

So, she's not crazy.

She's just smart.

And Quinn being clear across campus in Puck's room – she's just confirmed this via phone call – is a smart move…

…for someone trying to get her mack on.

She can't hold back her grin when her door rattles this time with that distinctive knock she's now memorized, and her grins only widens when she see Brittany leaning in her doorway.

"They finally fixed your elevator."

Santana chuckles when she nods, a little snort sneaking out at the end.

She blushes but Brittany only smiles wider.

"Here's your pizza, Miss," she says a little more enthusiastically than usual. But then her grin turns a little bashful. "I actually helped make it."

Something about that gesture warms Santana's heart and she almost chokes on her words, even as she hands over the money. "Did you?"

Brittany nods.

"It's probably gonna be the best pizza ever, then," she says cutely, laughing when Brittany rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly.

It grows quiet.

Santana's not really sure what to say.

Actually, she _knows_ what she wants to say but saying it would actually require getting her vocal chords to work and right now they're not so…

"What are you doing tonight?" Brittany asks unexpectedly.

Inside, Santana's doing a little happy dance because Brittany usually takes off after the cash exchange.

The fact that she's lingering speaks volumes, at least, she thinks it does.

She shrugs. "Probably just going to watch a movie."

"Ooh," Brittany grins. "What movie?"

Santana quirks an eyebrow. "I don't know. I think I'm in the mood for _action_," she states boldly.

Brittany's eyebrows raise but she laughs lightly. "I'm _always _in the mood for action," she says, grinning slyly. "But, uh, what's your favorite movie?"

Santana reddens, wondering if she should answer that question truthfully or not, because her honest answer is pretty embarrassing.

She is a technically an adult after all.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

Brittany crosses her finger over her heart.

"_Aladdin_."

Brittany gasps. "Oh my God, I love that movie."

"Get out," Santana says, incredulously.

"Honest," the blonde maintains, smiling brightly. "It my favorite of all the Disney movies," she confesses.

"Me too," Santana enthuses, grinning.

When Brittany's hand reaches up to run along the length of her arm though, she promptly stops grinning.

"We should," Brittany starts quietly, her fingers tracing an invisible line around the back of Santana's left wrist. "…watch it together sometime," she finishes, hesitantly meeting Santana's gaze. "If you want, I mean," she adds quickly, almost snatching her hand away.

But Santana catches it, quick and concise. "I want," she breathes, her grip firm yet soft.

***o*O*o***

She hasn't spoken to Brittany since their last pizza meeting – *snort* pizza meeting – and she stupidly realizes that she had no way to actually get in touch with the girl and, yes, a long time ago she'd decided that calling Brittany's place of work would put her _past_ creepy, so she decides that she'll wait it out.

It's been a week and she already placed the order so now she's just worrying her bottom lip to shreds, debating whether or not Brittany actually _likes_ her or if she only likes her.

Granted, she doesn't go around almost kissing and trailing her hand down her friend's arms, but then again, she's gay.

Maybe that's completely normal behavior for a girl who's not turned on by other girls.

How is _she _supposed to know?

Her stomach is balled up in knots and, judging by all the other past deliveries, Brittany should have arrived at least ten minutes ago, and with this, the lead balloon settles at the pit of her stomach.

She'd misinterpreted things.

She'd read Brittany wrong.

Well, _that_ sucks.

Hoping against hope Santana walks to the door – _maybe the elevator's broken again _– and tugs it open, startling a very pretty, very _there_ Brittany.

"Uh…"Brittany stutters, completely caught off-guard.

Santana, for her part, can't stop gaping.

Brittany is naturally gorgeous like _all_ the time, but, tonight, she looks especially so. Her hair is curled and she's wearing makeup, and her off the shoulder top and skinny jeans combo just completes the whole _everything_ to perfection.

Brittany nervously clears her throat. "That'll be five forty one."

Santana's brows knit. "Why-"

Brittany looks _really_ nervous. "Half of the pizza has pineapple on it," she explains.

Now, Santana is really confused. "Why?"

Brittany forces her shoulders up into a shrug. "I like pineapple," she says, grinning slightly as she materializes a copy of _Aladdin_. "Can it be sometime now?"

Santana grins so hard her cheeks get a little numb. She reaches out for Brittany's wrist and tugs her across the threshold. "It can _definitely_ be sometime."

***o*O*o***

Santana pauses the movie just before Aladdin and Jasmine kiss for the first time.

Brittany looks over at her.

They're sitting shoulder by shoulder on the floor in front of her bed, the half empty box of pizza still open on her desk.

"What'd you stop it for?" the blonde asks, smiling slightly.

"Aladdin is not getting his mack on before me tonight," Santana grins and Brittany giggles, even though her cheeks warm.

Santana leans in suddenly and presses her lips against Brittany's, softly tackling her onto the floor and making it a mission to kiss away her giggles.

***o*O*o***

Quinn stumbles in at a quarter 'til two; still smiling dopily at the good night kiss Puck had just given her at the door.

The television startles her because a) Santana never forgets to turn the TV off and 2) it's on that loud DVD menu music.

She steps over shoes and – _what, is this for real_? – clothes in order to shut off the offending noise, and her eyes trip over to Santana's bed, and either Santana's dyed her hair and gained a few pounds or there are two people in that bed.

Curiosity wins out and she steps a little closer, peering into the muted darkness and she can make out the outline of Santana and… is that? It is. It's pizza delivery girl.

Quinn's brain tries to work it out, honestly she does, but all her muddled mass of neurons and grey matter can come up with is:

_About time._

Mission: Accomplished.


	24. It's A Spider, Man

**Disclaimer:**Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:**Hey all. So, again, I'm without a beta for this one. It sucks. But there may be good news coming on another front, however, I don't want to get too many hopes up so I won't say too much about it right now. I know I say this all the time but thanks for reading you guys. And an even more special 'thank you' to each of you that actually take the time out of your lives to review. It always means a little more to me (even if it's just a few words) that not only are you reading what I'm writing, you're enjoying it enough to actually verbally (well, textually) let me know. That's touching in ways that words can never describe. Okay, enough with the sap and on with the chap.

**P.S.** Original chapter title is original *rolls eyes at self*.

* * *

><p>Santana is waiting for Kurt to arrive.<p>

She can't even begin to fathom what the guy could _possibly_ want with her.

Aside from the fact that they were both raging homosexuals – he casually stalked Kyan from _Queer Eye_ for about a year and Quinn had to forcibly restrain her to keep her from tattooing Tegan and Sara on her boobs in college, _Thank God_ – they don't really have much else in common.

In fact, over the course of their four-year high school acquaintance, she'd probably spoken a total of ten words to him.

So, imagine her surprise when completely out of the blue there was a voicemail from _The_ Kurt Hummel sitting on her phone.

_Hey Satan. Heh, remember when I used to call you that? Anyway, I was wondering if you'd join Blaine and me for lunch. I'll pay."_

Her initial response was "Hell to the no."

But, let's be real here.

This is Santana Lopez we're talking about. And Santana Lopez would never turn down a free meal at Breadstix.

So here she is.

Impatiently waiting on her lunch guests and internally debating whether or not it would be completely rude to eat _all _of the breadsticks before they arrive.

…

She concludes it totally wouldn't be.

***o*O*o***

Deciding to maybe go into the washroom and freshen up a bit – or, in other words, get rid of the evidence – she meanders casually through the softly lit restaurant, taking in the couples speaking in hushed tones and the friends and families laughing and genuinely enjoying one another's company.

She's pretty low on the friends and the ones she does have are or eventually will become friends with benefits, and if there's one thing she's learned it's that sex can absolutely ruin a friendship – especially when you have sex with several friends.

She should probably stop that, but, hey, sex is fun.

Anyway, the family column is even slimmer. There's her primo, Tito, but he's not exactly the easiest guy to get a hold of. He's always traveling to and from Columbia. And her mom decided that having a daughter who would only bring into the family another daughter – psh, like Santana's even _thinking _about that – was a little bit more than her traditionally Catholic heart could take.

So, it really strikes her as odd when, while glancing around at the foreign smiling faces, her chest tightens uncomfortably and she feels a longing so fierce and so unfamiliar that she can hardly recall ever feeling it before.

Maybe once at Christmas when she wanted that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle van.

She got a Fashion Fantasy Barbie.

Guess what got torched the first time she got hold of matches?

Whatever, she thinks, shrugging off the memory and the _feelings_.

She's not _that_type of girl anyway.

What she is is a bad ass, no strings attached sex shark.

A gay one.

Does that mean she's a dolphin?

***o*O*o***

Now, there are literally 1001 things Santana can imagine stumbling upon in a public bathroom.

And they range from the completely lewd: a bisexual midget orgy to the completely preposterous, like a clown...orgy.

What?

So she thinks about sex a lot.

Don't judge.

The point is, even with her extremely colorful and incredibly single-minded imagination, she wouldn't have ever thought this up.

There's a woman – a gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed marvel with legs for _days _to be exact – standing on the vanity top, perched precariously on open-toed heels and widened eyes staring horror-struck at a spot on the floor.

Santana can kind of see the problem.

It is a pretty fugly color.

"Um..." she starts, trying for soft and slow instead of bold and brash. The last thing she wants is to be held accountable for brain trauma and if chickie gets spooked and tumbles head-first she'd definitely feel responsible. "...are you, like, okay?" she settles for asking.

She figures it's a safe enough question.

When the woman looks up, her startled look gives way to a wide smile almost immediately. "Oh, I'm fine, thanks," she says, holding Santana's gaze for about a nanosecond before returning her stare to the horrid-looking tile.

Santana shrugs, deciding instantly to forgo her current line of questioning and interest – which is a shame because she wouldn't mind seeing those magnificent baby blues widen in an emotion far, far from fear – and just do what she actually came to do, but, just as she moves toward the stall, the blonde's head snaps up again, her hands up in the air, palms facing outward.

"Wait!" she yells, and Santana pauses mid-step, startled. "Don't move an inch," the blonde cautions, looking bewildered.

Santana swallows, a little afraid for her life.

The woman wouldn't _hurt_ her would she?

Teetering on one leg, Santana feels very foolish, but she kind of learned her lesson about challenging crazy people from her years forced to use public transportation.

Do not engage crazies unless you want one to not realize they're sitting on you because they're off in their own insane little world.

Still, when your bladder's half-full and you're wearing six-inch heels, there's only so much balancing one can do.

"Look, lady, I just have to go to the bathroom, okay?" she says, speaking slowly and cautiously. "I'm not going to harm the floor."

The blonde woman meets her gaze again, her lips turning down into what can only be described as an endearing frown. "But you're gonna squish it."

Now it's Santana's turn to frown. "Squish...it? What– squish the floor?! Lady, you're crazy. They have medications and shit for stuff like this, you know."

"Not the floor, silly," the woman actually laughs at Santana like _she's_ the crazy one. "How can anyone squish a floor? Well, I guess maybe you can squish an inflatable floor, but we're not in a jumping jack."

Santana doesn't follow, nor does she want to at this point. Gorgeous or not, certifiably insane is not attractive, and just as she's about to stomp onward, crazy bitch be damned, she sees it.

It's freaking _huge_!

"Ahhh!" she shrieks, the thing causing her to take a few involuntary steps back. "Oh my God, what the hell is that thing?" she asks no one, her back pressed against the wall.

It's not moving but it's alive and hairy and holding them hostage and now it all makes sense.

"I'm not sure which species it is _exactly_," the woman answers, still standing on the sink. "But it might be poisonous. I watched spider week on discovery and they said most red-backed spiders had venom."

That's right.

The thing that's got them both scared out of their minds is the hugest, hairiest, fanged spider Santana has ever seen.

Santana's chest is heaving greatly and all of a sudden, there is far too much distance between her and the exit. She needs away from this bug and she needs away from it now.

But how to accomplish this?

Lightning strikes, or a light bulb goes off – it really doesn't matter – and Santana regards her heeled boots with renewed interest.

Again, though, the shrieking blonde atop the vanity stops her in her tracks. "What are you _doing_?"

"Um, I was gonna kill the monster so that I can finally pee and get out of here," she deadpans, surprised her dry humor is still with her. In the far recesses of her mind she can faintly hear the sound of Wiz Khalifah singing about "rolling up", but mostly she's focused on the other woman and the eight-legged monstrosity sharing quarters with her.

"You can't kill it," blondie maintains, her features morphing from frightened to concerned in a display that is nothing short of mesmerizing.

"Watch me," Santana grits out, bringing down her foot with vigor and missing the bug as it scampers to the right.

"No!" the other woman screeches, almost jumping from the counter. "You _can't_. Think about it. It's another living creature. It doesn't deserve to die just because we don't like it. If that were the case, Perez Hilton would have been desperated a long time ago."

Santana has _no_ idea what this chick is talking about but there are the beginnings of tears in those remarkable blue eyes and – God help her – she thinks she won't be able to handle seeing this woman bawling over a spider she killed.

A _spider_.

She can't believe it.

"Well…what do you want me to do?" she asks with a shrug, her voice quieter than she's really accustomed to.

In fact, she doesn't ever think she's spoken quite this gently before.

"Could you maybe...um…catch it?"

Nope.

Nyet.

Not gonna happen.

"What you say, Blondie?"

The woman looks a tad more excited now, the pout and tears gone from her expression as she smiles at Santana. "That way we can just take it outside and set it free."

"Okay: three things," Santana starts, holding up her fingers. "One: Are you actually nuts? Two: The only way I'm touching that thing is if I'm using a tissue to get it off the bottom of my shoe or I'm dead. And since I'm still breathing, seems like option number one is the only way to go. And three: Why can't you catch it, Spider-girl? Because, as far as I can see, you're the only one with any vested interest in whether it lives or dies."

The blonde just crosses her arms and pouts, still looking down on Santana. "I'm scared."

Santana rolls her eyes, huffing loudly, even though a tad, teeny little part of her wants to smile at the adorableness of it all.

Damn it.

"Okay, fine," she breathes, caving because a) she really wants to pee and 2) Santana Bad-Ass Lopez is not a pussy – especially not a pussy afraid of a freaking spider. She's got to woman up and handle this thing just to save face, and while she's fairly certain that this little escapade probably won't be documented, there's nothing wrong with covering her ass. "What's the plan?"

The blonde woman shrugs.

_Figures_.

Sighing again, Santana surveys the room and notices a little basket sitting on the vanity right near where the other lady is standing.

It might work.

"Hand me that," she says, nodding at the item and the blonde extends her arm forward, the basket trembling comically as she stretches out.

"Wow," Santana breathes, stretching out to grab it, "You weren't kidding about being scared."

The other woman shakes her head. "I had a horrible experience when I was younger. My cousin had these pet tarantulas and he was kind of mean, so, one night during a sleepover he put them on me while I was sleeping, because that's what you do at a sleepover, and one of them bit me and I got really sick."

"That sucks," Santana empathizes, her lips drawn into a thin line. "And your cousin sounds like a dick."

"He's not though," the blonde says, brow furrowing slightly. "I mean, I'm sure he has one…"

"Okay, moving on," Santana interrupts that tangent. "Here's how this is going to play out. But I'm gonna need your help, alright?"

The blonde nods, her face drawn in concentration. "Okay."

"I'm gonna put the basket down to the floor and try to scare him-"

"What if it's a girl?"

_Seriously?_

"…or her…into it and then you'll jump down – without breaking your neck, please – and open the door and we'll run this little fucker outside. Got it?"

The woman nods, "Got it."

_Hmmm…_

Santana raises an eyebrow. "So after I scoop it what do you do?"

"Run outside," she states with a proud smile that fades quickly. "Wait, that wasn't it, I…open the door?"

Santana sighs again. "Are you sure you can handle this?"

The blonde woman nods. "I got it."

"Okay then. On three. One…two…three!"

***o*O*o***

Well…

The spider's gone.

But that may just have been a bit of luck on their part.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Santana's forces her eyes to focus and the smirk that forms is almost immediate. "Just the right amount," she murmurs, the mind-fog receding.

"Huh?"

Santana pushes up from the floor, propping up on her elbows. The woman from before is sitting Indian-style beside her, lower lip drawn between her teeth in worry.

"Never mind," she croaks out, rubbing her forehead slightly. "What happened?"

Now the blonde looks really worried, and sheepish, and embarrassed. It's fascinating how she can see these emotions on her as clear as day. "Well, remember how I was supposed to open the door?"

Santana nods.

"Well, I did. I just, forgot to move out of the way. I was just so scared, you know. So, the door bumped me and then I bumped you. Or, rather, you bumped your head on mine. But, the good news is, the basket flew out into the hallway when you fell so…" The woman trails off, her eyes flitting across the walls and the stall doors and the mirror and practically anything other than Santana.

Santana (and this must truly be the head trauma talking because she) could care less. In fact, once the blonde is done with her explanation, the only thing the she says is, "I gotta pee."

***o*O*o***

When she's done, the blonde is still in the bathroom, leaning up against an adjacent stall .

Santana tends to washing her hands.

"I thought you would have left," she says, letting the water run over her hands, "You know, now that you're free and all," she jokes.

"Not yet."

"Oh?" she questions, soaping up now.

"Still have some business to take care of."

The tone is different than what she's been hearing all night.

Kind of…sexy.

"And what's that?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the soap rinsing off her hands and swirling down the drain.

The skin on the back of her neck is tingling and she can feel the woman's stare all the way down to her toes. She smirks.

"I forgot to say thank you."

Santana finally turns around and _goddamn_, Blondie's right there.

Like, _right there_.

Her eyes kind of cross as they focus on the blue ones right in front of her, and the smirk on her face falters just slightly when the woman smiles, her lips brushing against the Santana's as they curve upward.

"So, thank you," she whispers, and Santana feels it more than she hears it.

And, can she just say, this – what's happening here – is not how it goes down, like, ever.

She's usually the hunter, not the hunted, but right now, as her fingers curl around the edge of the vanity counter, she feels like a fly ensnared in a spider's web. Waiting – just _waiting_ – to be devoured.

"You're…um, welcome," she manages, swallowing thickly.

She doesn't know who starts it, nor does it really matter, but somehow their mouths meet.

And meet again.

And again.

And again and again and again.

Santana whimpers – she fucking _whimpers_ – when the other woman pulls away suddenly, eyes dancing and lips full and grinning.

"That felt good," she says, trailing her tongue over pink lips.

"Mmmhmm," Santana husks out, her eyes trained on that tongue.

Blondie drags a toe across the floor, looking shy all of a sudden and not like the chick that just had her tongue down Santana's throat. "So…maybe we could do it again?"

"Oh fuck yeah," Santana murmurs, arms going around the blonde's neck in a heartbeat.

This time there's no mistaking who starts it off.

***o*O*o***

This is definitely not the first time she's had sex in a bathroom stall.

She's used to the lack of space and restricted range of movement.

Really, that just makes it all hotter.

And she's used to the inherent lack of privacy, knowing that at any moment anyone could come in and smell the sex in the air.

Honestly, most people just walk right back out, embarrassed.

But what's she's not used to: having, like, eight orgasms without even having a "go" so to speak.

Not that she's complaining too much.

"Oh my God," she gasps, her hands still fisting long strands of golden locks as she drops her head back against the stall wall.

Lips press against her inner thigh and a hand brushes against her side. "I told you my name was Brittany."

Yeah, Blondie's name is Brittany but that name's a little too cutesy to call out during coitus.

Maybe Britt.

"Come on," she breathes, tugging her up and kissing her soundly, thoroughly. She can taste herself on Brittany's lips and it's just _way_ past time for her to return the favor.

She works her hand up a smooth thigh, her fingers drawn to the warmth she finds there like a fly drawn to sugar. "Do you want me?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes."

She smoothes her hand higher, her fingers barely brushing against lace and liquid heat.

Both of their eyes flutter. "Tell me you want me."

Brittany's lips quirk up and she shifts her hips slightly, making her desire known with the less than subtle movement. "I want you."

Santana smirks, capturing those lips one more time before easing back, tugging on the blonde's lower lip gently. Her hand cups the blonde fully, her right arm holding her close when Brittany sways dangerously. "No. Tell _me_ you want me," she clarifies darkly.

Brittany sighs, Santana's questing fingers wreaking havoc on her senses. "I want you," she repeats, the words rushing forward on a single breath. "…Santana," she finishes, knowing, somehow, exactly what the other woman was implying.

"Good girl," Santana coos, sliding underneath soaked lace and burying three fingers into Brittany's sex, swallowing Brittany's gasp with her mouth. "Very good girl."

***o*O*o***

**Later…**

"Oh my God, Santana," Kurt effuses, shrugging off his jacket. "I'm so sorry we're late. There was this accident on the 405 and it's completely dreadful regularly anyway. It took us forty-five minutes when it's usually a fifteen minute drive."

"No worries," Santana says, holding up her phone. "Got your text."

"You weren't waiting too long, were you?" Blaine asks, actually leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Santana smirks, grabbing a glass and taking a sip of water. "I managed to entertain myself."

"That's good," Kurt says, amused at her relaxed presence. He was entirely expecting normally bitchy Santana to be in Hurricane Santana mode when they finally arrived.

"So, the reason Kurt and I wanted to meet with you is because…" Blaine starts, sharing a look with his boyfriend and they join hands, staring dreamily at one another.

She doesn't care.

She's too drunk off orgasmic bliss to care.

"…meet someone."

Wait.

What?

"Meet someone?" she echoes, eyebrows slanting in confusion.

What the hell, man? She didn't need gay guys getting her girls.

That's like Stevie Wonder telling you your outfit looks good.

"There she is," Kurt says, eyes looking over Santana and waving someone over enthusiastically. "Brittany!"

Santana's eyebrows rise this time.

No.

Freaking.

Way.

She feels like she's moving in slow-motion as she turns around, her eyes starting at the floor and trailing up those endless legs once more, tripping over the barely noticeable finger-bruises dotting the outside of her right thigh.

And higher to curvy hips, swaying seductively.

And higher still until she's tracing full lips, corners upturned, and shimmering blue eyes, crinkled slightly at the corners in amusement.

Santana's jaw hits the floor.

Brittany grins. "Hey there, stranger."


	25. Second Chances

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Well, hi again. Halfway done! Woot! So, that was sooner than I expected. My Beta got back to me quicker than I anticipated so here's an update (which in case you don't know makes two for the day). Ignore the slightly repetitive title. I'm having a hard time naming things as of late. Oh, and dude, I am like digging the reviews. Real talk: I was in the writer's slump from hell and I re-read some of them and it got me going again. Reviews are important, yo. *hint, hint*. Anyway, still GO BEARS! Thanks to my Beta and her awesomeness and all of you guys for reading and my new friend who is totally going to make me happy - and by extension some of you guys happy - very soon. That is all. Read, review, and remember...

_**09-11-2001**_

* * *

><p>Mike tiptoes over to the crib, peeking his eyes over the railing just in case Andrew was playing a game of cat and mouse.<p>

But baby Andrew is wide awake, and when he spots his father, he lights up.

"Aw, little man," Mike coos, swooping in and scooping up his son with glee. "Looks like you're an early riser just like your old man. Now, your mom on the other hand…"

Mike playfully looks back at the bed, where his wife just groans, moving to throw a pillow over her face.

Mike chuckles, carrying Andrew over with him as he crawls up the length of the bed, still dressed only in boxers. He sets Andrew down on the bed, settling in behind him and walking his fingers up a revealed arm. "Wakey, wakey," he says, skipping his digits underneath the pillow and gently prodding a warm nose.

"It's too early," the woman grumbles, still unmoving.

"But Drew really wants to see his mama," Mike protests, tickling a tiny soft tummy. "Don't you Drew?"

Baby Drew gurgles around the foot in his mouth.

At long last, Santana pulls the pillow away, her frown quickly turning to a smile at the surprised look on both Mike and Andrew's faces. "What?" she asks.

"I keep forgetting how beautiful you are," Mike says quietly, leaning down to brush his fingers through her hair.

"Oh please," Santana snorts, moving a finger to brush the sleep out of her eyes. "I look awful."

"Wash your mouth out with soap," Mike says, face playfully stern. "Go on."

Santana grins, moving to sit up in bed and lifting Andrew into her lap, clapping his hands together for him. "What time do you have to go in today?"

"You know what," Mike says, moving behind her and stretching his long legs out alongside hers, "I think I'm gonna spend the day with my favorite family." He drops a kiss onto her shoulder, peeking around her at the marvel they'd both created.

Santana peers back at him, a small inscrutable smile on her face. "We're your only family."

Mike grins, kissing her gently. "Same thing."

***o*O*o***

"We're on our way, Mercedes," she says, slinging the over-filled diaper bag over her shoulder.

"_Well, hurry up. I haven't seen my nephew in a little over twelve hours and I'm going through withdrawal."_

Santana smiles into the phone. "You sound like it."

"_I know. I've been watching Gerber baby commercials online."_

"Please tell me you're kidding," Santana says, raising an eyebrow as she brushes down the tuft of dark hair sticking up on Andrew's head, and smiling when it pops right back up a few seconds later.

"_Okay. I'm kidding."_

"But you're not kidding."

"_Sad, isn't it?"_

"We're on our way," Santana says, grabbing Andrew and walking out of the door.

"Ha!" Mike shouts, pulling himself out of the backseat. "I have successfully installed the car seat. Who's. Da. Man?" he gloats, flexing.

"You are," Santana says dryly, handing Andrew to him so that he can strap him in. "But we'd better get a move on. Mercedes was getting antsy."

"I'll drive then," Mike says, laughing while shaking his head. "No offense babe, but you drive like an 80-year old Korean woman."

"Take that back," Santana scoffs, poking him in the ribs when he climbs into the driver's seat.

"Hey, I can say that," Mike states with a shrug. "I'm Asian."

"Whatever," she says, turning back briefly to gently touch Andrew's head after she's secured her seatbelt. "Just drive."

"Sure thing, grandma."

***o*O*o***

Mike groans as they pull up to a red light. "I hate this song."

Santana slaps his hand when it goes toward the tuner. "Don't you dare," she says, turning Bruno Mars' "Marry You" up instead. "This is our wedding song."

"I know," Mike says, smiling wryly. "That's why I hate it. We played it over and over and over and over."

"Blame your frat buddy Kurt and his anal-retentiveness, then," Santana shoots back, slightly annoyed.

"You know I'm just kidding, right?" Mike teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love this song. I love everything about the day we got married. Even the puking I did right before we stepped into the chapel."

Santana giggles, snorting even. "Gross."

"And I love you," Mike adds, almost like an afterthought.

"You're kind of a charmer," Santana muses, turning to look at him. "Did you know that?"

"Is it working?" Mike grins, leaning over to her.

"A little," she says, closing the space between them and pressing her lips against his chastely.

The light turns green as Mike pulls away, letting his foot up off of the brakes slightly and pulling into the intersection. "Man, I'm a pim-"

_SCREEEECH!_

_CRUNNNCH!_

***o*O*o***

Santana's head is throbbing.

She tries to open her eyes but it's almost like they're glued shut.

Her ears are ringing, but the sound is distant like she's listening to it underwater.

It's Andrew that finally gets her to open her eyes though.

He's crying and she furrows her brows as her eyes try to focus, but the haze is thick, and the smells assaulting her senses are making her want to vomit.

She smells…blood.

Her eyelids flutter closed.

***o*O*o***

"Ma'am?"

She opens her eyes again.

There are more sounds, more voices, shouting.

Her head still hurts.

"Ma'am?" and unfamiliar voice again calls from her right.

She turns toward the sound, or tries to.

Her body feels heavy and her vision is still blurred.

"Ma'am," the voice says, "The ambulance is on its way. Just hang in there, okay?"

The words confuse her.

Ambulance?

Hang in there?

The panic almost grips her instantaneously when the word accident finally filters through.

She realizes she can no longer hear Andrew anymore and she struggles to speak, licking her dry lips before croaking quietly.

There's the sound of crunching glass and from the soft exhalations she can feel against her skin, someone is leaning right over her face.

"My baby?" she repeats quietly, almost whispering it out. "Where…my baby?"

"We've got him Ma'am," the person says, touching her gently, just a whisper of skin on skin contact with her hand. "He's okay."

Santana's eyes fall shut again.

***o*O*o***

Something squeaky bounces off the floor and Santana groans quietly, shifting around the bed.

There used to be a time when she complained about the size of it; the lack of space.

Now it's massive.

She rolls out and shuffles over to the crib, smiling down at a bouncy Andrew.

The baby's gripping onto the side railing of his crib, a mountain of colorful toys strewn across the floor all around him.

"Drew," she says, brushing her hand through his unruly hair. "It's okay for you to sleep in after the sun comes up. Mommy promises you won't miss anything."

Andrew just giggles, holding his hands up to signal her and she lifts him out, cradling the baby boy in her arms.

She doesn't glance at her wedding picture as she takes him to the nursery.

***o*O*o***

"Andrew, stop it," Santana chastises mildly, as her precocious apple-cheeked little boy grabs yet another item off the shelf.

She loves her little bundle of joy to death, but grocery trips with him as of late have become more of a pain than pleasure as the boy was growing rapidly and becoming more curious with age.

Andrew claps his hands, squealing grandly when his mother snatches something else away from him.

If she didn't know any better, she'd swear Mike was being channeled through their son right now. Mike would do the same thing: throwing random items into the cart and when she'd catch him he'd laugh bemusedly.

It was cute, but damn it if it didn't make grocery trips like hours longer.

Finally, though, she'd procured all of the items off of her mental checklist and headed to the check-out line where, as she's loading items onto her conveyor belt, she promptly discovers something new about her son.

He doesn't like riding in the cart anymore.

Of course, Andrew's just decided this today, so when he pulls his legs up onto the plastic seat and pulls himself up, Santana's eyes go wide and she grabs him just as he dives for her.

"Andrew," she gasps, scooping him up onto her hip. "What has gotten into you?"

The baby just laughs, his two bottom teeth barely cutting through his gum line. She can't help but smile back, kissing his cheek gently and turning her attention back to the conveyor belt.

She loads all of her items, barely registering Andrew's squirming form until the last item is placed, but once she does, she peeks at him and sees that he's not even paying attention to her.

Or the rows of candy lined along the checkout.

Nope, his eyes are on the blonde woman in line behind them.

"Well, hello there, handsome," the woman says, reaching out a finger which Andrew promptly grabs, grinning broadly.

He brings it to his mouth, slobbering all over his fist – and the woman's finger – in an effort to chew the digit and Santana's eyes widen, cheeks growing red in embarrassment. "Oh my God, Andrew," she gasps, pulling his hand away. "I'm so sorry. He's teething so he chews on everything."

"It's no big deal," the woman dismisses easily, not even looking bothered. "Baby drool's like the least gross bodily fluid."

Santana smiles somewhat at the odd comment. "I guess so."

"Besides," the woman continues. "I'm kind of taken with this cutie," she says, grinning at Andrew and then even wider as he grins back.

"He seems to like you too," Santana comments, almost struggling with Andrew as he reaches out for the stranger again.

"Miss," the cashier interrupts, smiling tersely. "That'll be eight-two forty-six."

Santana, still tightly gripping onto Andrew, fumbles with her purse until the toddler is suddenly lifted out of her arms, the blonde smiling widely when she turns to look at her. "I'll give him back," the woman laughs at the look of pure shock on Santana's face. "I promise."

Santana's features shift into gratitude as she finishes the transaction quickly, Andrew back in her arms in a flash. "Thank you."

"No worries," the woman dismisses, tipping the baseball cap she's wearing on her head a little.

***o*O*o***

"Hey!"

Santana swivels, still loading groceries as the woman from before shuffles closer.

"Need help?" the woman offers and Santana smiles sheepishly.

"It's only a couple of bags."

The woman shrugs. "I don't mind."

***o*O*o***

They make small talk, very small, as they work.

The woman, Brittany, is nothing if not kind and exuberant.

And, to be honest, Santana's missed the company of people who didn't know she was a widow.

But eventually, the last bag is loaded, and Andrew is strapped into his car seat, and Santana is sitting in the driver's seat, prepared to wave goodbye to Brittany.

"Wait," Brittany says suddenly, placing a hand on the driver's side window.

"What?"

The woman bites her lips, visibly anxious. "Um…this might sound a little weird but, I'm new to the neighborhood so I don't really have that many friends so I was wondering…would you like to hang out sometime?"

Santana almost laughs at the cautiously hopeful look painting itself so clearly across the woman's face. "That almost sounded like you were asking me on a date," she teases.

Brittany just shrugs, tilting her head.

"Sure," Santana says, turning the engine off and turning towards her. "I'd like that."

***o*O*o***

"Say, Bye Brittany," Santana coaxes, waving Andrew's hand from the doorway.

Andrew giggles and Brittany wiggles her fingers at the both of them, waiting until she's half a block away before dialing her friend.

"_This had better be important. The Bachelorette is running a marathon."_

"Is one of your dearest and oldest friends having an emotional meltdown important?"

"_Depends on the friend."_

"Quinn," Brittany sighs, pulling over to the side of the road and putting the car into park. "I'm in way over my head. I mean, this just can't happen. It can't."

"_Give me three reasons why, and make 'em quick because I have a feeling she's gonna say 'Bentley' again. Oho, there she goes,"_

"She's straight," Brittany ticks off her fingers.

Quinn snorts. _"All women are,"_ she deadpans easily. _"Until they're not."_

"She has a kid."

"_Whom you adore,"_ Quinn points out needlessly.

"She's got baggage," Brittany mumbles ruefully, thinking about all she's heard about Mike and his greatness. It sucks to be jealous of a dead guy.

"_Hello,ex-girlfriend over here,"_ Quinn drawls into the phone, her words slightly slurred. She must've been playing that Bachelorette drinking game again. _"You're talking to your baggage right now."_

"You're not baggage. You're luggage and I gladly carry you around," Brittany says, smiling gently.

"_That is the gayest thing you've ever said."_

"I hate you."

"_Love you too, babe,"_ Quinn says. _"Now, quit being a pussy and tell her how you feel. Or, at least tell her that you're into chicks. See how she responds to that."_

***o*O*o***

"I love this movie," Santana says, settling against Brittany's sofa.

Andrew's knocked out in his carrier.

"Me too," Brittany says, shifting a little closer.

Santana turns to her. "Brad Pitt is so hot."

Brittany shrugs, taking a deep breath to gather all of her courage. "Actually, I'm more into Angelina Jolie."

***o*O*o***

"She's a lesbian!" Santana nearly shouts into the receiver, still trying and failing to get Andrew to eat mashed green beans. "I've never been friends with a lesbian before."

"_So what?"_ Mercedes laughs on the other end of the line and Santana frowns, not amused.

"So what if it gets weird?" she asks, testing the warmth of the food against her own lip and grimacing.

No wonder Andy won't eat this crap.

It tastes awful.

"_It could only get weird if you guys start messing around and since you're not into the snatch, I don't think you have anything to be worry about."_

***o*O*o***

"_So...she's cool with it?"_

Brittany shrugs, cradling the phone between her neck and her shoulder as she goes through a fresh batch of photographs. "She's not _un_cool with it."

"_Sweet,"_ Quinn croons. _"Now it's time to make your move."_

"Excuse me?" Brittany practically screeches.

"_You just said-"_

"I said that she wasn't freaking out or anything, not that she wanted to share sweet lady kisses with me."

"_It's the next step, naturally,"_ Quinn says, amusement shining through her voice. _"Tell her how you feel. Lay it all on the line. I've seen you two together, you know? There's something there. Oh God, I sound like the teapot."_

Brittany grins, finding a picture of her, Santana, and Andy in the pile. "You think there's something there for real?"

"_I know,"_ Quinn assures her. _"Go for it."_

***o*O*o***

Tonight's the night.

She's totally gonna do it.

And she's not gonna back down like she has for the last month and a half since she'd had that conversation with Quinn.

She's totally going to tell Santana how she feels.

Brittany lets herself in and Andrew claps his chubby hands together excitedly, a drooly grin stretched between his rosy cheeks.

"Hey Handsy Andy," she says, scooping him up. "Where's your ma-"

The question dies a rather spectacular death as Santana turns into the living room.

She's wearing a form-fitting black evening gown that stops just above the knee. Her hair is down, she's wearing make-up, and she's still fiddling with an earring when she catches sight of Brittany.

"I tried to catch you before you left the studio because you know how I hate you talking on the phone while driving, but there's been a slight change of plans," Santana says, her cheeks reddening slightly. "Long story short, this guy I went to high school with stopped by the office today and one thing led to another, and before you know it I was accepting a dinner invite for this evening. Funny, huh?"

"Hilarious," Brittany deadpans.

Santana primps in front of the mirror. "So, I'm gonna have to take a rain-check on movie night. Is that okay?"

Brittany's sure her heart will just fall out of her mouth if she speaks so she just nods, trying to swallow it back down. She walks with Andy to the living room couch, plopping down onto it like her legs just went out.

"Cool. Thanks Britt," Santana says, moving behind the couch and distractedly brushing the other woman's shoulder. "Oh, and Mercedes is on her way to watch Andy-"

"I'll watch him," Brittany cuts in.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," she nods, taking the baby's knuckles and kissing them gently. "Me and Andy can have a movie night of our own."

"Okay," Santana says, grabbing her handbag. "I probably won't be out late," she says, leaning down to kiss Andrew's cheek. "Bye baby."

"Thanks again, Britt," she says to the blonde, moving in to kiss her cheek as well, but at the last possible moment, Brittany turns and she gets her square on the lips instead.

Santana pulls away, startled.

Brittany stares at her for a moment, searching dark eyes before leaning back in, barely making contact before Santana pulls away, eyes widening by the nanosecond.

"I should go," she mutters, briskly walking away and out of her house.

Brittany holds the breath in her lungs long after the sound of Santana's car fades away.

"Crap," she finally mutters, squeezing her eyes shut.

***o*O*o***

_Crap_.

Santana barely makes it to the restaurant what with a whirlwind of thoughts and mountain of implications.

She'd just kissed….a woman.

She'd just kissed…_Brittany_.

It's just all too much.

Thankfully though, Noah's already there when she arrives and hopefully his company will provide a welcome distraction.

"Hey there," he says, standing as she approaches. He kisses her on the cheek. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."

Santana bites her lip. "Just a little traffic."

"Oh," Noah says, waiting for her to sit. "it's been my experience that usually that's code for, 'I took a while to get dressed' and if that's the case here, then let me just say that I'm more than willing to wait if this is what you'll look like every time."

Santana stares at him blankly. "What?"

***o*O*o***

"_So, let me get this straight,"_ Quinn says. _"She kissed you."_

Brittany nods sadly, looking on as Andrew gets his boogey on with The Wiggles. "It was an accident, though. I think."

"_And you kissed her back?"_

"Just a peck," Brittany sighs, slouching further back against the couch. "Just a small brush of lips against lips, but it was amazing, Q."

"_And then, if I heard you correctly, the woman ran out of her own house?"_

Brittany winces. "She didn't so much run as walk briskly but, yeah."

"_Jeez, I'm sorry, Britt,"_ Quinn says, sighing slightly. _"I feel awful for putting you up to this."_

"That's right," Brittany says, voice ringing with accusation. "You totally did. You…I…she…"

"_I said I was sorry. Maybe she'll come around? Or, you know, you can brush it off as some drunken/hormonal thing; although, she probably wouldn't take too kindly to you being sloshed and baby-sitting her kid."_

"Thanks Quinn," Brittany says loudly. "I'm hanging up now."

"_I still thinks she likes you,"_ Quinn rushes out before Brittany can end the call, and the woman stares at her phone for a while before Andy crawls over, climbing into her lap.

"What do you think, Andy?" she asks him and he grins, thrilled just to have her undivided attention again. "You think your mama likes me?"

***o*O*o***

"Would you prefer a breast or a thigh?"

Santana almost swallows her tongue.

"_Excuse_ me?"

"You've ordered the chicken, Madam. Do you want white or dark meat?"

Santana reddens, embarrassed instantly. "Light," she answers, still slightly flustered.

"Are you okay?" Noah asks. "You seem a little off tonight."

"I'm fine. I just…" Santana sighs, picking up her glass of water. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Tell me about it," he replies, settling in. "We're still trying to ink this deal with this lesbian company-"

Santana chokes. "What?"

"Close the deal? Lebanese company?" Noah repeats. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Santana nods in affirmation but her words spell out a different story. "Actually, no. Do you…can we catch up another time?" she asks him, hurriedly gathering her things.

"Sure," Noah says, standing when she does. "Is everything okay? Can I help you or-"

"No," Santana says, cutting him off. "There's just something I need to take care of."

***o*O*o***

Brittany startles when she hears the key in the lock, turning away from the door the moment it opens and focusing instead on what's on the television screen.

She frowns when she sees it's an infomercial.

Damn these thoughts and how they're occupying her mind.

"I thought you'd be asleep," Santana says, cautiously stepping into the living room.

Brittany shrugs. "I…was thinking about…stuff," she says, switching the television off before standing, turning to face Santana. "You're home early. What, did he have hallucinations?"

"It's halitosis," Santana automatically corrects, her voice lacking any amusement. "And, no, he didn't."

Brittany looks uncomfortable – more so than Santana's ever seen her – and her eyes are looking everywhere except at the woman standing just a few feet in front of her. "Oh."

"Brittany," Santana starts, taking a small step forward, "What was that earlier?"

The blonde scratches her neck nervously. "Earlier?" she repeats, questioningly. "Like, when? At the studio-"

"Don't pretend, Brittany," Santana pleads. "Please don't."

Brittany drops her head momentarily, nodding a few times before looking back up. "I…look, I don't know what you want me to say, Santana," she starts, her voice rising just a tad with the anxiety she's feeling. "You're awesome, okay? You're awesome and you smell good and you look hot and I love you."

Santana gasps. "What?"

"And Andy," Brittany adds, only just realizing what she'd said on the end of her rant. "But, you know, differently because ew, that's gross."

"Brittany," Santana interrupts, "Are you serious?"

She meets Santana's gaze, her own unwavering. "As a Saturday afternoon special."

Santana can't help it.

She smiles.

That was just _such_ a Brittany thing to say.

"I know that you don't like women, Santana," Brittany says, slowly moving closer. "But maybe, with a little practice, you could like me?"

Santana's smile softens as she closes that last millimeter of space between them. "I think maybe I already do."

***o*O*o***

Brittany chuckles when her eyelid is pulled up by tiny little digits.

"Mornin' sleepy head," Santana smiles, propped up on her elbow behind Andy.

"G'mornin'," Brittany rasps out, wiping her eyes.

They're both fully clothed still and there's a fair amount of space between them because – hello – baby steps, but that doesn't stop Brittany from leaning over and pressing her lips against Santana's tenderly.

Nor does it stop Andrew from clapping excitedly and jumping onto their faces, giving them both sloppy kisses of his own.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note #2:<strong> Please hit up the poll on my profile page.


	26. Babs

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I have no words. I've actually been going through a bad time, in my personal life but whatever; you guys don't care about that. Glee tonight.

* * *

><p>"How long are you going to be gone for again?"<p>

A sigh comes across the line. _"I told you Lopez. A week. Just one week."_

Santana's sitting at her desk, in her office, and doing absolutely nothing.

These are the perks of being the boss' only daughter.

Especially if said boss is the editor-in-chief of the town's sole newspaper.

"Ugh. Jesus, Puckerman," Santana grumbles, slapping down her stapler a few times. "Can't you just get Quinn and Finn to do it?"

"_The last time we had Finn and Quinn house-sit for us, we ended up with some questionable new marks on the wall behind our headboard. Now, I somehow managed to convince Rachel that nothing happened, but, come on, I'm not stupid."_

Santana huffs. "What makes you think I won't put marks on the wall?"

"_You're not dating anyone."_

Santana smirks. "I repeat, 'what makes you think I won't put marks on the wall'?"

"_Let's be real, here," Puck says. "For one, your bachelorette pad is much more impressive than our quaint little bungalow. And B) if you take a girl back to my house you'll run the risk of knowing that you and I have had the pleasure of hooking up with the same person…again."_

"I told you never to mention that again," Santana cringes, hissing into her phone.

"_Calm down. What happens in Lima Heights Adjacent, stays there. Come on, San. I'm really hard up for a sitter and Rachel's hell-bent on this vacation."_

"I don't care about that ankle-biter."

"_Do it for me then."_

Santana snorts. "Is that supposed to be incentive or…?"

"_Breadstix' vouchers are already in the mail."_

"Why didn't you just _say_ so?"

***o*O*o***

Rachel pulls open the door , a wide grin stretching across her face. "Hello Santana."

"Where are my vouchers?" she demands, slipping past the shorter woman and holding out an open palm to Puck.

Noah rolls his eyes, but reaches into his back pocket to retrieve the coupons, slapping them onto her hand. "You'll get the other two when I get back, but if and only if my house is still standing."

"Please," Santana rolls her eyes, checking the expiration date on the slips of paper, "Like I'm planning on spending any unnecessary time in this creepy old lady-like house. I'm checking on the stupid bird and then I'm outie."

"She's not a stupid bird," Rachel corrects primly, strolling over to the bird cage where her African Grey parrot, Babs (yep, named after The Streisand), is currently perched quietly. "She's a pretty bird. Aren't you girl? Aren't you?" Rachel coos.

The bird whistles. "I'm a pretty bird. I'm a pretty bird."

Santana rolls her eyes and tries not to gag when Rachel actually kisses the thing before petting it gently and closing the cage door.

"Now, Santana, make sure the door is secure after you're done feeding her because her eyesight's getting bad and she can't fly around the house unsupervised, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Lock the birdie up," Santana murmurs, distractedly replying to a random text message. "Is that all?"

Rachel smiles. "No," she says, stepping up and abruptly crushing Santana in a body hug. "Thank you."

Santana looks horrified and peering over at Puck – who's cracking up – she's sure it shows on her face. "Unhand me, you crazy person," she grumbles, struggling against Rachel's surprisingly strong super-grip.

She must be related to Mighty Mouse or something.

"C'mon, Rachel. We'd better get going if we want to make it before nightfall," Puck says, jingling the car keys, and – thankfully – prying her off of Santana.

"Okay," Rachel sighs, following Puck out of the door, but not before one last warning. "Don't forget what I said, Santana."

***o*O*o***

And she totally didn't forget.

At least, not for the first four days.

She went over to check on the bird every morning before "work" and every other night before "dates".

The bird, surprisingly, was an excellent aide when it came to getting laid.

Not that Santana needed any help getting laid – she totally did fine on her own – but, it was nice to not have to be so damn creative all the time and pretend like you actually cared about what so and so's major was or like, names or anything.

She'd just break out her phone, show a pic or a vid of the bird, and the next thing you knew she was at home under the sheets with some nameless but super attractive hottie who thought she was sweet.

Sure, that effect wore off in the morning when she practically kicked Monday or Tuesday or whatever the hell day it was out of bed, but for the night time naughty-capades, the bird was a major advantage.

Except, well, Thursday doesn't exactly flow with the natural order of things.

See, the girl from Wednesday night – the red head – she is supposed to just frown and get dressed and leave when Santana rolled over and kissed her and said "Get out".

But instead, she freaking breaks Santana's TV.

Crazy bitch.

"You think it's okay to just sleep with people and then treat them like shit? Huh? Cabrona?"

Crazy chick's gripping a stiletto heel like a freaking sword and Santana's torn between laughing at an Irish girl using a Spanish swear word and dialing 911, because the girl is really kinda fucking up her apartment.

She settles for the former.

"Oh, you think this is funny?" the girl questions, eyebrows in her hairline. She smiles dangerously and tips Santana's antique vase over. "You think that's funny, too?"

Santana stops laughing but she doesn't look as annoyed as the chick had obviously hoped for. "I didn't even like that vase. The 20-year old my dad's doing thought she'd play nice by buying me that piece of crap. I use it for an ash tray."

"Maybe this'll get your attention then."

Santana's lips thin into a straight line. "You don't want to do that."

This Lizzie Borden wannabe – Santana actually paid attention in high school history – has a hand on her 52" flat screen and she's nudging it forward off its stand inch by excruciating inch.

Santana _may_ kill her.

"I think I do," the crazy says darkly and then, before Santana can react, she shoves the TV to the floor, the screen cracking with a sickening crunch. "That'll teach you to make women your personal playthings," the red-head says coolly, grabbing her clothing off the floor and walking out of Santana's apartment as naked as the day she was born.

Santana can't believe it.

Like, she honestly can't.

The chick actually _broke_ her TV.

In a fit of rage, Santana rushes to her apartment door and throws it open, not caring who may hear her at this time of morning. "You're wrong. It only teaches me to stay away from crazy red-head bitches!" she yells down her deserted corridor.

Which is weird, because, like, the girl just left. There's no way she could have high-tailed it out of there that fast.

"Santana?" a sickeningly sweet voice questions from somewhere behind her and she cringes, not believing it possible.

She barely has time to duck for cover before the red-head clocks her, right in the eye, and storms off without another word.

Santana's hand flies up immediately, cradling her throbbing cheek face as her good eye instinctively tears up.

"I am so not going in to work today," she grumbles, stumbling back inside her apartment and kicking the door shut.

***o*O*o***

"This is so not fair," she groans aloud to no one.

She's sitting in her apartment with an ice pack in one hand and her iPhone in the other.

She looks around her bedroom and her TV is still lying there, prone on the floor.

She's not even gonna try to turn it on.

The way they manufacture things today you could sneeze on a brand new TV and the monitor'd go out.

She is immensely pissed though because she's missing Wendy Williams and it was gonna be like, the best Wendy Williams ever because Tyra was gonna be on _and_ the cast of Jersey Shore – but like, only the good ones like The Situation and Snooki because no one gives a fuck about Deena – and she's _missing_ it.

"Fucking unfair," she mutters again just before phone goes off; her reminder ringtone.

That's right, she has to go and check on the bird.

And…Puck's got a TV.

"Yes," she says, pumping a fist in the air.

The day starts looking up again.

***o*O*o***

Not only does Puck have a TV, but since he'd obviously had to cave on a number of things including keeping the bird - some refugee from a traveling circus (though he was so sprung for his wife he rarely said no to anything) - Rachel had let him get the biggest, baddest, flat screen television out there. With surround sound.

"This is the life," Santana says, settling onto the leather couch and propping her feet up on the table. Her eye has stopped throbbing but is still relatively swollen and tender, but she's not going to let something as trivial as looking like Popeye the Sailor Man prevent her from watching what is bound to be the best talk-show episode ever in history.

Nothing short of a tsunami can tear her away from this TV right now, and even then, it'd have to be like a category two at least.

She doesn't even care when about halfway through the program, Babs comes flapping unsteadily into the den, perching next to Santana on the couch.

Babs whistles. "How you doin? How you doin?" and Santana snorts, almost inhaling the diet coke she is drinking.

Mike and Snooki are explaining their recent "situation" to Tyra when Babs flaps off, distracting Santana momentarily before the Latina just shrugs and turns back her full attention to the screen.

"So then there was like this 'thump,'" Mike says, smacking his fist into his hand for emphasis and the noise actually echoes in the den.

_Hmm_, she thinks. _This sound system is really good. I mean, it almost sounded like-_

Santana's thoughts crash in an instant when she looks over and sees Babs sliding down the wall, flapping pathetically to stay in the air and finally just giving up and crashing beak first onto the carpeted floor.

"Oh crap," Santana says breathlessly, almost not believing her eyes. "Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap."

_Rachel's gonna kill me._

That's the first thing that comes to mind.

And while before she would have laughed in the face of anyone who'd insinuate such a thing, after getting her ass handed to her this morning by Wednesday, she's no longer willing to underestimate the capabilities of a crazy bitch.

As if she needed a reminder for how much trouble she's in, her phone goes off, signaling an incoming call…from Rachel.

She panics and almost doesn't answer, but then thinks _Rachel _will_ drive back up here today and I'll _really _be fucked. Think, Santana. _Think!

"Hello?" she asks, her voice timid as she speaks into the receiver.

"_Oh, there you are. I was getting worried. How are you?"_

"I'm fine. Good. And you?"

There's a momentary pause. _"Are you sure you're okay? You never ask how I am."_

Santana almost slaps her face. "That's right. Because I don't care," she amends, eyes darting over to Babs who twitches. "What do you want Berry? I'm busy."

"_I'm sure you are,"_ Rachel says dryly. _"Is that trashy talk-show television I hear in the background?"_

"For your information, it's Fox News, so…yeah."

"_I was just checking in on Babs. How is she?"_

"Well, she was fine when I checked on her this morning. And when I look in on her this evening," Santana starts, coughing to cover up Babs' strangled whistles. "I'm sure she'll be fine then, too."

"_Good. Well, I'm also calling because we had a change of plans since Noah and I finished up with my parents much sooner than I'd anticipated. Anyway, we'll be coming home the day after tomorrow….Hello? Did you hear me Santana?"_

Santana swallows thickly. "I heard you."

"_Do try not to sound too ecstatic. I thought you'd be elated that we're cutting our trip short."_

"Oh I am," Santana tries to cover it up. "Just yesterday I was tempted to put on a sweater in 80 degree weather. This house is rubbing off on me and it needs to stop as soon as possible."

"_Well, then. Yes. We'll see you in a couple of days."_

Santana grimaces. "Can't wait."

Rachel disconnects the call and Santana gingerly walks over to the parrot lying somewhat motionless on the floor. "What am I gonna do?"

***o*O*o***

Question: Who knew Lima had an actually animal emergency room?

Answer: Not Santana.

So imagine her surprise when she Googled, "I think I killed my friends' pet parrot. Please help" and the search turned up 1) some kind of acidic concoction that is potent enough to dissolve chicken – the mouse may or may not have lingered on that link for more than a second – and 2) an animal hospital no more than ten minutes from Puck's house.

Actually, she shouldn't be too surprised.

Rachel always had had a tendency to research things to the maximum so she probably only _chose_ this house because of its proximity to an animal hospital, a super cuts, and a Kid R' Us – because Santana just _knows_ that's where she gets all those sweaters from.

Anyway, as soon as she found the place, Santana plugged the directions in her GPS and hightailed it right over, in the passenger seat propped up in a shoebox she had managed to find.

Her only relief was that the bird was still making noises every now and again, but, nothing that sounded too encouraging.

Now that she's here though, the Asian lady at the counter just blinks at her when she explains the situation. And, honestly, Santana can't really blame her. She probably thinks Santana got into a fight _with_ the bird what with the black eye and everything and is wondering if she should call PETA or something.

"She flew into the wall?"

"Yes," Santana says, and then backtracks. "I think. I didn't really see. But there was this THUD, you know and then, plop, downed bird. Look lady, we're wasting time. Can you fix it?" she asks, thrusting the shoebox at the woman's face and the lady gets up, grabbing the box and moving to open a door so Santana can step into the back of the facility, where the actual examination rooms are.

For a pet hospital, it really doesn't smell like she'd expected it to. You know, like cat food and dog shit. In fact, it was pretty immaculate. Almost like an actual hospital.

"Wait here," the woman says, opening a door and motioning for Santana to sit. "The Doctor will be right with you."

Santana plops down onto one of the hard plastic chairs and waits impatiently for whomever to show up. She just needed this part to be over so she could figure out what her next move should be. She'd Googled "cost of African gray parrots" too and, it'd be good to know sooner rather than later if she'd have to ask her dad for a small loan.

Babs twitches in the shoebox again, and Santana looks down to where she'd holding it, all of a sudden feeling really bad. "I'm sorry I didn't watch you as closely as I should have, but if you pull through this I'll but you so many crackers, we'll put Keebler out of business."

"That's a common misconception."

Santana's head snaps to the door where this, this, this…_close your mouth Santana; you're drooling_…woman is standing and smiling at her like she's actually pleased to see her.

Which, maybe she is, but she doesn't _know _Santana so she shouldn't be smiling at her like that, right?

"The crackers thing, I mean," the woman clarifies when Santana doesn't speak. "They like them and all, but most parrots prefer a nice berry or some nuts. But I'm sure you already knew that," she continues, looking at Santana expectantly.

_Speak_.

"Of course," Santana lies, trying to regain some sense of composure but her libido is suddenly wide awake and she's not even sure what she's saying anymore because _damn_.

When God made skinny jeans and tank tops, She made them for _this _woman because she's wearing them like a second skin, and wearing them well. And while it's not necessarily appropriate attire for a doctor – actually, _is_ she the doctor? Santana can't really tell – she's not complaining.

At.

All.

"So Tina tells me she crashed into a wall?" the woman asks, somehow pulling a stethoscope out of her pocket.

"Who?"

"The bird."

"The bird's name is Babs."

"I know, and Tina told me she crashed into a wall."

"Tina and Babs are not the same name."

The woman smiles, her eyes actually sparkling. "Tina's my assistant. The Asian woman?" the doctor prompts.

Santana reddens. "Oh," she mutters sheepishly, wanting to die. _Like, hello, what happened to your swagger Miss Lopez?_

The doctor smiles. "So, _Babs_," she stresses, her voice colored with amusement, "flew into a wall?"

Santana nods, not wanting to make an ass out of herself again.

The doctor smiles kindly, probably mistaking Santana's silence for anxiety, and uses the stethoscope to listen for Babs' heartbeat. She prods gently at the bird, carefully, lifting up one wing thing the other, stroking Babs underside and peering closely at the pet parrot.

Finally, after all of that, she sits back and regards Santana, a stoic look on her face. "Well, she'll live," the doctor says, a small, gentle smile on her face. "But I think she's broken her left wing. And she's chipped her beak. Also, she's concussed."

Santana almost swallows her tongue. "Birds get concussed?" she can't stop herself from asking.

"Of course," the doctor says, smiling again. "They're just like people after all."

Santana finds herself smiling unwittingly. "I never really looked at it that way."

The doctor shrugs, "Most people don't. So, we'll have to take a couple of X-rays. And we're going to keep her overnight for observation, with your permission, of course. And then, you can probably come get her in the morning after she's fitted with her splint."

Santana nods, feeling a whole lot better, though whether that has to do with the bird's health or the fact that she'd be coming back to this place, she can't infer. "Thanks Doctor," she says, smiling genuinely.

The doctor tilts her head, laughing a little. "Call me Brittany."

***o*O*o***

Santana's still grumbling about the cost of the X-rays and treatment when Brittany walks up to Tina at the payment window.

"Make sure that we have Ms. Lopez's proper contact information," she says, giving Santana a pointed look. "I want to be sure we'll be able to keep in touch. You know, on Babs' progress and everything."

"Right," Santana says, shrugging it off. "Like, totally. Because, I want to talk to you…about Babs."

"Right," Brittany laughs, nervously and Tina, for all of her faux ignorance, cannot hide her amusement.

"That'll be 284 dollars, Ms. Lopez," she says, smirking at the flustered Latina.

Santana digs into her purse, sifting through her belongings until she finds her ATM card. "Anything for Babs," she says, handing it over. "Oh, and please, call me Santana. Both of you," she adds, addressing Tina but staring at Brittany.

Tina swipes the card and hands it back, and Santana fumbles it, dropping it and her purse to the floor, the contents spilling out onto the linoleum.

Before she can bend down, Brittany's there. "Let me help you."

"I'm such a klutz sometimes," Santana murmurs, brushing her hair back behind her ear and realizing – quite suddenly – that she'd been talking and smiling and flirting (horribly) while donning a black eye.

"At least the bird and you have something in common," Brittany says, smiling wryly and Santana, for all of her coolness and HBIC-ness, just breaks out into laughter.

The rolling on the floor, snorting, tears in your eyes kind of laughter.

Yes, it's embarrassing.

But effective, as the doctor just kneels beside her, helping collect items, and unable to stifle her own amusement. At last, they've gotten everything back in the bag, save for-

"Hmm," Brittany hums, handing over the certificates. "I like Breadstix."

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

"Do you wanna go?"

***o*O*o***

So…

Santana's had sex in some pretty strange places.

The gift shop storage room at the petting zoo; the pretzel cart vendor chick was all kinds of hot.

Then there was that time in the back of the last roller coaster car; the angle was pretty tricky but once they figured it out…let's just say: Gravity is a girl's best friend.

But, this one?

This one is brand new.

I mean, she's totally gotten it on in vehicles before – it's like a stud prerequisite or something – but a van that doubled as a pet hospital ambulance is some kinky shit.

Plus, Brittany's kind of throwing her around like a sack of potatoes.

The animal doctor is freakishly and deceptively strong.

Santana pulls back for air only to have it stolen away again when Brittany's teeth sink into the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

Santana didn't even know she _had_ a spot there.

Brittany's pressing her against something unmoving and Santana just goes with it until the position gets to be a bit straining and she pushes back, her hands tangled into golden locks as she gives as good as she's getting.

Brittany grunts, her hands tracing a burning path from the back of Santana's neck, along her shoulder blades, finally coming to rest on hips that can't stop moving. "Up," she breathes out, her lips and tongue nipping at Santana's chin of all things.

"What?" Santana gasps after a particularly well-timed hip thrust.

"Up," Brittany repeats, and without breaking contact she lifts Santana easily onto the small cushioned seat on the side of the van. "Mmm," Brittany hums, meeting Santana's lips again. "Much better."

It is, Santana decides, as she wraps her legs around Brittany's wait, tugging her closer and craving more still as her hands find themselves at war with a button and zipper.

Brittany smirks, breaking away from Santana's mouth only to watch Santana's fingers inch their way into super-tight jeans. "This kind of defeats the purpose of me putting you on the seat."

"You were taking too long," Santana murmurs, her lips twitching up at the corners when she brushes against slick skin.

Brittany's head rolls forward, her forehead pressing against Santana's. "That feels good."

"Does it?" Santana asks, a coy grin taking residence on her face.

Brittany whimpers, shifting so that Santana has better access. "Yesss."

"How about…" Santana starts, pushing her hand down further and very quickly and very efficiently slipping two fingers inside a writhing Brittany, "…this?"

"Oh God," Brittany groans, draping her arms around Santana's shoulders and shutting the other woman up with wet, deep kisses.

It works and Santana doesn't say another word, working Brittany up and up and up until the blonde is literally a quivering, panting, mass of undulating flesh, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Santana swallows each of Brittany's cries, kissing her breathless still as he fingers slowly work the woman back down.

When Brittany's finally calmed down enough to speak again, she smiles sheepishly at Santana, lazily kissing the brunette back. "I know that's not your bird."

Santana blinks.

She was certainly not expecting that comment.

"Babs?" Brittany goes on to say, the fingers of her right hand closing around Santana's left wrist and tugging, shivering slightly as a wet trail traces its way up her lower abdomen. "I know she's not yours. Rachel brings her in quite frequently."

Santana's on the verge of panicking, but she loses her train of thought when Brittany's hands work their way into her shirt, her fingers playing against Santana's ribs and tracing the contours just underneath her breasts. "I'm sorry," she manages to say, her eyes closing momentarily when nimble fingers shift underneath her bra, kneading soft flesh.

"I don't mind that you lied," Brittany says, dropping a single kiss onto Santana's neck and lingering there, her warm breath tickling overly sensitive skin. "I'm kind of curious as to why, though."

"Because," Santana grunts, one of Brittany's hands shifting suddenly and beginning a torturously slow route south. "Because…"

"Because," Brittany breathes, kissing an accessible earlobe, "…why?"

"'Cause, I wanted…I wanted..."

Brittany smirks, pulling back to look at Santana as her hand slips beyond cloth barriers, quickly finding purchase at the apex of Santana's thighs. "…me?" she questions, locking eyes with the brunette.

Santana nods eagerly, not even caring how desperate she looks, her hips franticly moving, searching for pleasurable friction. "Yes…yes. I want you. Just…please…"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me."

Brittany pretends to think about it, cruelly stilling her fingers long enough that Santana groans in frustration. "Okay."

***o*O*o***

For the first time in a long time Santana rolls over in the morning and the alarm that usually goes off in her head, sending her into a mood of bitchiness and makes her walk all over completely desirable women, stays silent.

Instead, she merely watches as the woman beside her sleeps peacefully, a faint smile playing at the corner of perfectly kissable lips.

Santana obliges.

"Mmmm," Brittany mumbles, rousing gently. "This is a nice way to wake up."

"I know," Santana drawls, the fingers of her left hand drawing lazy patterns on an exposed collarbone. She smiles when she realizes she's playing connect-the-dots with freckles.

"You know what's even nicer?" Brittany asks, rolling over and slipping one leg over Santana's hips, effectively straddling the woman beneath her.

Her hands splay their long fingers along Santana's abdomen, delighting in the feel of muscles fluttering under her touch.

Santana bites her lip, trying to stave off a knowing grin as she shakes her head. "But I have a feeling that you're going to show me."

But before she can, the sound of Santana's apartment door slamming open reaches their ears and they both jump, startled.

"SANTANA! What the hell did you do to my _bird_?"


	27. Brave New World

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I apologize you guys. It's all on me. Writer's block and subsequent lack of a Beta meant that my laptop and I were not on good terms, at least when it came to writing. Which isn't to say that I don't have ideas – I gots a plenty. It's just I forgot how to do words for awhile. Still kind of in the mode but we'll see. Hopefully some decent feedback can get me jumpstarted again. This one is long…got a little carried away. Anyway, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me and also to my new beta for helping me out. It's very much appreciated. Countdown to Brittana for those who haven't heard (and if you haven't, where do you live? Under a freaking rock?)

* * *

><p>"Land ahoy!"<p>

Duncan Pierce looks up from his morning tea when he hears one of the crewmen shout out.

He rushes over to the starboard side of the ship, looking out into the mist in the direction that now several of the men are pointing. Sure enough there is a gray mass rising up in the distance, jutting out of the sea almost like magic.

Duncan sighs in relief but also elation.

It'd been a long journey, much longer than they'd anticipated, but they were finally here. And, as the land in the distance slowly but surely started to take form, Duncan reflected on just what it is that brought them to this point.

It began with a letter he received almost some five years ago.

***o*O*o***

_Dearest Friend,_

_As I am writing this letter to you we are finally settling into our new surroundings. This place is truly remarkable, my friend. Astounding, even. It's quite the change of pace from cheery old London but every day there is something new to discover, something amazing to behold. It truly is a new world. _

_There are not many of us here so I've taken claim to several acres of land; land that appears to be laden with a plant the natives refer to as tobacco. I don't see how useful it is or what medicinal purposes it could have, but in a few months time it should be ready for harvest and I'll use it to trade with the locals who seem very keen on it. _

_My darling Judith has fallen in line with the other men's wives after a "period of adjustment" and young Quinn has taken on the role of young adventurer. I don't know how we two managed to raise such rambunctious daughters but she and your Brittany have the spirit of a world traveler living within them. Although, I'm afraid you might not recognize Quinn if you were to see her again. She's growing by the inch daily and on that I do not exaggerate._

_I'm afraid I have to bring this correspondence to an end friend, night is encroaching and I've grown weary after a long day's work. I trust that this letter finds you in good health. Give my love to Abigail and the children._

_With my deepest and sincerest regards,_

_Mr. Russell Fabray_

***o*O*o***

Russell Fabray didn't know it then, but the tobacco plant he'd harvest would become one of the most lucrative and popular exports of all the colonies and soon Fabray-brand smoking and chewing tobacco became the must-have for every bloke in Europe.

So when Russell offered his oldest friend Duncan a stake in the company, he jumped at the chance, uprooting his family and embarking on the adventure of a lifetime.

The adventure is reaching its peak now and Duncan can hardly contain his excitement as he rushes below deck to their sleeping quarters, happily rousing his wife and children.

"Darling," he whispers, leaning down close to her ear. "Abigail, we've arrived."

Abigail's eyes flutter open and she shifts under the bed cover. "Have we?"

"Yes," Duncan nearly shouts. "Do get dressed while I go wake the children. I don't want any of you to miss this."

Duncan pauses outside the boys' cabin, knuckles rapping heavily against the door. "Boys! Wake up! Land ho!" he calls out, moving down to the next darkened dormitory.

Samuel pokes his head out, Michael sleepily rubbing his eyes behind him. "What is the trouble, Father?"

"No trouble, my boy," Duncan says, enthusiasm exuding from him in waves. "None at all. Brittany dearest, come up! We've arrived!" he yells, rattling her door on its hinges with a raucous knock.

The boys duck back inside, clamoring over one another as they rush to get presentable having finally cottoned on to what was going on, and Duncan laughs, pleased.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's the last to make it on deck, wrapping her overcoat around herself because she's still in her sleeping gown and her mother would have her head if she knew but it's not entirely Brittany's fault it always takes her forever to get her dressing gown on; the front looks like the back and the back looks like the front and, honestly, why are there so many buttons?

Samuel and Michael are already leaning over the ship's bow, gripping onto the wooden railing and looking so very much like the young boys they used to be.

Lately, they've all been changing and while Samuel and Michael could still carry on much like usual, Brittany's activities had become much more restrictive. While the boys got to do fun things like play in the field and catch wild frogs, she was told to sit with her legs crossed and behave like a lady.

The problem was, Brittany isn't the average lady-in-waiting. She's hated having to sit idly by while the boys busied themselves with more interesting tasks than cooking and mending. And she abhors no longer being able to engage in the stickball tournaments she'd once triumphed in because she has to make sure her dressing gowns remain immaculate. She does not enjoy being left behind simply because she's a girl, having to play second-best to boys who'd once considered her their equal. Brittany wants to be one of the boys.

She craves that excitement, even if everyone around her tells her she can't have it.

Like, now, as she rushes to the railing of the ship, her mother holds out her arm, halting Brittany's progress a few feet away from her goal.

"But I want to see, too," she protests, her lips turning down into a mighty frown.

"You can see from here," her mother snips.

"I can watch her Mother," Michael intervenes and Brittany smiles politely at her brother as she moves to join him.

"Thank you, Michael," she says, cautiously stepping up to the railing and gripping on tightly. "But I don't need any watching."

Duncan laughs heartily, moving up behind the trio. "That's my girl," he states proudly, rubbing her shoulder gently. "Look at it, children. Isn't it magnificent?"

Brittany's eyes trace the silhouetted mass in the distance over and over, her father's excitement contagious and coursing through her veins as the seamen let several rifle shots ring out into the atmosphere.

Somewhere out there there's excitement to be had and Brittany cannot wait to find it.

***o*O*o***

Santana startles at the noise.

She's perched atop one of the tallest branches of her favorite oak tree, watching the first rays of the sun as they sweep across the land.

It's her favorite time of the day; everything is still, quiet. And she's finally allowed a moment to actually…think. Think about her life, her family…her future.

It's not exactly working out this morning though and Santana's eyes frantically scan the horizon, peering out into the deep waters. In the distance something is starting to take shape and, just as Santana's mind starts to consider the possibilities, a small pebble catches Santana on the foot.

Frowning and swiping lightly at the reddened skin, Santana peers down into the foliage and sees Rachel looking up at her. "Mother is looking for you."

"Mother is always looking for me," Santana grumbles, rolling her eyes as she starts to climb down.

"That's because you are always off somewhere you should not be," Rachel says, worriedly looking on as Santana scales down the massive tree. "And I always have to cover for you," she adds as an afterthought.

Santana lands in front of Rachel with practiced ease, her buck-skin dress riding up slightly as she takes the brunt of her weight on strong, lean legs. Rachel's similarly dressed, the only difference between them the sapphire necklace tied around Santana's neck. "Nayeli, Rachel," Santana grins, throwing her arms around the other girl.

"Yes, yes. The feeling is returned. Now, come on. We should have at least two full baskets of berries picked by now," Rachel chides, dragging the other girl along.

It's not a long walk back to the village, but it's long enough, and it allows Santana's mind just enough time to wander; enough time to wonder about things she really shouldn't be.

"I saw more strange clouds today," Santana comments, matching Rachel's quickened pace step for step.

Rachel sighs wearily. "Santana…"

"I just want to see them," she interrupts, pleading. "I want to know."

"Your father-"

Santana interrupts. "My father says pale-faces are dangerous."

"They are."

"You are a pale-face," Santana counters. "You are not dangerous."

Rachel gives a non-committal shrug. "I'm different."

Santana stops moving, her hand gripping tightly onto Rachel's wrist. "Tell me about before."

"I told you," Rachel sighs. "I don't remember a lot."

"Tell me what you do remember, then. Please Rachel," she adds once she sees the other girl's hesitancy. She plops down onto the soft grass and motions for the Rachel to do the same.

"I can remember how he smelled," Rachel starts, a faint smile painting itself across her face. "Like your father's smoking pipe only…sweeter. And I remember his voice always made me feel safe. And he was always smiling. At me. At my uncle. Always smiling."

Santana grins, closing her eyes and trying to imagine it all.

"I wore these long robes, woven robes that felt so, so soft against my skin, like lots and lots of feathers. I was happy. _We_ were happy."

Santana's eyes open as her friend grows quiet and she looks on as Rachel's face morphs from one of joy to one of horror and she knows this part of the story all too well.

"_Father, I'm tired," she whines, tugging on his long braid of hair without much regard._

_Chief Hinto's usual stern composure breaks when he looks down at his young daughter and he smiles widely. _

"_Come, little one," he says, stooping low and holding out his massive arms and she clamors onto his shoulders, little hands clasped tightly under his chin._

_The tribe – his tribe – is heading back after a successful fishing excursion on the coast where they'd caught enough fish to last the entire village at least three months' time._

_Like always, Hinto is on high alert and even though he's made this trip using the same route countless times, his past has taught him that it is best to remain cautious at all times._

_And, since Santana is along for this trip (he never lets her out of his sight), his level of worry is at an all time high._

"_Father," Santana questions, her tiny finger pointing in the near-distance, "What is that?"_

_Hinto narrows his eyes, looking in her finger's direction and barely makes out the wispy entrails of smoke from a waning fire._

"_Ashkii," Hinto says, beckoning to a younger member of the tribe. "What do you make of it?"_

"_I don't know, Hinto," he says. "Should we see?"_

_Hinto nods, curiosity getting the better of him (And he wonders where Santana gets it from). "Let's."_

_The thick brush gives way to a small clearing and Hinto places Santana back down at the edge of the wood. _

"_Stay here, Princess."_

_Santana pouts, her arms crossing over her flattened chest. "I want to go."_

"_I said stay," Hinto says, his normally light blue eyes darkening slightly._

_As Hinto and the men step cautiously into the clearing, bows and arrows drawn, Santana plops down onto the dirt with a huff, scooping up tiny fistfuls of grass and sprinkling it over her thin legs._

_She spies a cricket and, grabbing a stick, prods at the tiny creature until it hops away, bothered. She giggles in delight but stops instantly when another's quiet laughter joins her own._

_Turning her head slightly to the side, Santana's jaw drops when she sees the thing sitting in front of her, eyes wide and unblinking._

_She doesn't really lose it until it speaks and, before she knows it, she's scrambling out of the woods as fast as her small legs can carry her, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs._

"_Father! Father!," she sobs, gripping onto Hinto's leg tightly._

_Hinto – and the rest of the tribesmen –instantly go on the defensive, bows raised and arrows ready to strike._

"_What is it, child?" Hinto asks, peering into the shrubbery._

"_It's there," Santana mumbles, her cheeks red and arms wrapped desperately around her father._

_Hinto and the men edge closer to the wood, Santana following cautiously behind but when Ashkii pulls back a leafy branch, he lets out a yelp just as the girl hidden there screeches, the surprise knocking him flat off his feet and onto his bottom._

"_Is it an owl?" one of the men exclaims._

"_It is no owl," Ashkii states solemnly, hurrying to stand upright again. "It…it is a girl."_

"_A girl?" Santana echoes, peering from around Hinto's legs._

_They all crowd around the strange girl and she cowers pathetically, tears falling steadily from rounded eyes._

_Hinto looks her over, sees the blood on her gown, and suddenly the scene around them makes sense._

"_What do we do, Hinto?" another asks._

"_Father," Santana says, stepping forward. "She should come with us. She looks scared and hungry and tired and she is all alone. We could keep her safe until her mother and father return."_

_Hinto smile, more at his daughter's naïveté than her actual words._

_He knows that the girl's parents will not be returning._

"_Then it is settled," Hinto says, brushing his hand against his daughter's cheek. "The girl is coming with us."_

Rachel had come with them that day but only after much coaxing from a relentless Santana. She'd only find out much later on why Rachel was so hesitant to go with them in the first place.

How the girl still had nightmares about men who looked like Chief Hinto had taken her father and uncle away, and set their home on fire. How Rachel had literally sat in that same spot they'd found her for weeks, waiting in vain for a family that would never return.

Santana smiles at the girl who'd become so much like a sister to her – in spite of Hinto's refusal to call her his daughter. "I am glad we found you, Rachel."

Rachel smiles back, though it's not as full as it could be. "So am I."

***o*O*o***

_**Three months later…**_

The Fabray complex just off the Virginian coast is huge and Brittany still sometimes finds herself marveling over the vastness of it, and every time she'd just clutch Lord Tubbington tighter, fearing if she lost him here she'd never be able to find him again.

"Brittany!" Abigail calls, leaning out of the Fabrays' kitchen window. "Do come in now and help me with dinner. And put that dreadful creature away. You carry him everywhere and it's starting to show."

Brittany looks down at Lord Tubbington's chubby, whiskered face. He had started putting on quite a few pounds. Just as she is tucking him away in his cat house, Michael and Samuel saunter into the parlor, fresh from the tobacco fields.

"The leaves are looking nice and green, Mother. Should have a successful harvest this year," Samuel says, brushing a kiss to his mother's cheek.

Abigail bristles, shooing him away. "Goodness boy. You smell like a barn."

"Well, we can't all smell like roses like dear Brittany, here," Samuel teases, swiping a few vegetables off of Brittany's chopping block.

"Leave Brittany alone, Samuel," Michael says, rinsing his hands off in the washing basin.

"If I had my choice I'd only have the one brother, Mother. And three guesses as to which one I'd choose," Brittany snips, glaring heavily at the boy whose eyes and hair matched her own.

Samuel grins, grabbing an apple and taking a large bite before pretending to stab himself in the chest.

It's amazing how little in common she has with her blood brother, while she and Michael got along like peas in a pod.

Michael's mother had been their live-in housekeeper, a small Asian lady named Ming Chang. And when she bore a son, it was only natural that the Pierces would welcome him in just as they had done his mother, under the pretense the boy was their servant.

You see, Duncan Pierce was a rather progressive man with rather progressive ideas, and so, while the Changs were his "servants", he still valued their worth as individuals, letting them earn wage and not working their boarding costs into their labor.

Things changed when Michael was about three years of age and his mother left on a trip to the market to never return. Since then, Duncan has pretty much raised the boy as his own, even though the neighbors thought such things to be unnatural.

The Pierces didn't see it that way, and, in the end, that's all that really matters.

"Abigail, darling. Do tell me you haven't been slaving over this stove all day. We have servants for these things."

Mrs. Judith Fabray has never been one for housework and that trait is wholly apparent as she looks completely out of place in her own kitchen.

"Nonsense, Judith. It's the least Brittany and I can do as houseguests," Abigail says, plucking freshly-baked bread out of the wood-burning oven.

"I really wish you'd banish this silly houseguest idea from your head. Our home is your home. Soon enough, Russell will have your complex built and we'll all be just marvelous. Won't we, Quinnie dear?"

Quinn Fabray flounces into the parlor, her long-skirted dressed flowing elegantly at her feet as she glides across the room like she's floating.

"Indeed Mother," Quinn agrees, catching Brittany's eyes from across the room and smiling. "Just marvelous."

"Good evening, Miss Quinn," Samuel says, standing up just a little bit straighter. "You're looking quite lovely today."

Quinn meets his eye, trying not to laugh as Brittany makes a gagging gesture. "Thank you Samuel," she returns, smiling kindly. "I think you look dapper as well."

Samuel drags his boots across the hard floor, flushing magnificently as the door to the cottage swings open again, Russell and Duncan clamoring through obtrusively.

"What did I tell you Russell?" Duncan boasts, wiping off his sweaty brow with a kerchief. "I can smell Abigail's bread baking from a mile away."

"You men and your poor manners," Judith bemoans, shaking her head as they quickly settle at the dinner table, not bothering to tidy themselves.

"We're New Englanders now, Judith," Russell chuckles. "Get used to it."

***o*O*o***

"Puck's staring at you again," Santana leans over and says into Rachel's ear as loudly as she dares.

The only good thing about these formal dinners is watching the different colors Rachel's face turn.

"Tell me something I don't know," Rachel fires back, pinching at the fish in her bowl and steadfastly ignoring the boy.

Puck was their age and they'd grown up together, but lately he's been being weird and bringing Rachel all sorts of gifts even when she's not asking for them.

"Stop it, you two," Tina, their other friend, says. "Chief Hinto is looking at us."

Santana's eyes dart in her father's direction and sure enough the Chief's eyes are on his daughter, silently commanding her to behave like a Chief's daughter should.

Tonight that means quietly eating her dinner and paying at least some attention to the boy sitting across from her – the young man really – and, if her father has his way, the boy she is to marry.

Chayton is the eldest son of Ashkii, Santana's father's trusted friend, and he's quickly become one of the strongest young men in the tribe. He's an excellent hunter, a skilled carpenter, and a fierce warrior.

Santana couldn't be any less interested.

"Are you enjoying your meal?" Chayton asks her, his face stone but his eyes showing genuine concern.

"It is good," Santana offers, wanting to get her father off of her back for one moment at least.

"That is good," Chayton says and nothing else.

Honestly, Santana would much rather marry an ear of corn than this stick in the mud. She knows it's not typical, and maybe it's not exactly right, but when Santana marries she wants it to be for the right reasons.

She wants to marry for love.

"Rachel," she says quietly, picking at a kernel of corn, "The moon will sit high in the sky tonight."

"No, Santana. Not again," Rachel pleads. "Not after what happened last time."

"Nothing happened."

"That pale-face saw us."

"She saw nothing," Santana states sternly when Rachel's voice ventures on the loud side. "We'll be more careful."

Rachel worries her bottom lip. "I really don't think we should."

"Well I'm going with or without you."

***o*O*o***

Brittany lands on the dirt floor with an "oompf" and a cloud of dust.

"Hush it, Brittany," Samuel chastises. "Do you want to get us caught?"

"She didn't mean it, Sammy," Quinn says, grabbing the boy's hand. "Come on."

They walk by the light of the moon to an old abandoned barn – the barn Russell had intended on rearing cattle in until he'd discovered the cash crop of a century. Now, the place was kind of a make-shift refuge for the young teens.

A place where Brittany can literally let her hair down, a point she proves by undoing the pins and ribbons that keep her golden locks inhibited during the daytime.

Samuel and Quinn go over to a pile of hay, tumbling down and laughing before their lips find one another.

"I think I'm going to lose my dinner," Brittany recoils, turning away from the sight of her brother attempting to swallow Quinn's face whole.

Michael chuckles and the two climb up into the loft of the barn, Brittany's ascent made all the more easier as she's wearing some of Michael's old pants. "There are so many more stars here," she says, staring up into the atmosphere through the hole in the barn's roof.

"I just think the sky is clearer, Brittany," Michael laughs, lying back on the hay and folding his arms behind his head.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can."

"Do you miss your mother?"

It's an unprecedented question on Brittany's part and she watches as Michael's eyes close tightly as he swallows. "Every day," he whispers.

"What are you two talking about?" Samuel asks, climbing the last few rungs up the ladder before helping Quinn up.

"Nothing that concerns you, Samuel," Brittany says quickly.

Quinn groans, even as she smiles. "You two bicker more than two newly born pups. Makes one question if you even love one another."

"I love Brittany," Samuel huffs, even as he gives his sister a playful shove.

"And I love him, too. That doesn't mean I have to like him," Brittany retorts, pushing him back hard and Samuel laughingly goes with it, tumbling directly into Quinn.

"Can you all keep a secret?" Quinn asks once they've all settled once again.

She beckons them closer, leaning in close before speaking quietly. "My father doesn't want the workers to know because they might all decide to go back to England, but there are natives here."

"I already knew that," Michael says. "There have been a lot more settlers to come here before us."

"No, not those natives you ninny," the girl corrects. "People who were here before any of us got here. Indians; savages."

Brittany gasps. "Quinn, that's mean."

"It's true," Quinn nods. "My father's told me. They're viciously savage people and they want to kill us."

"If they want to kill us," Brittany reasons. "Why haven't they done so already? We've been here for a long time."

"Because we have muskets," Samuel replies, making a blasting noise and motioning his hands like he's holding a rifle.

"I thought I saw one a few fortnights ago," Michael speaks up. "At first I thought it was the servant Mrs. Jones, but, and I don't mean this to be rude, Mrs. Jones isn't that small."

"See," Quinn nods primly. "I told you. They are all around us just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike."

"I think that's all rubbish," Brittany contends, not willing to think that people – Indians or not – could be so mean.

"Just be careful," Quinn replies cryptically. "And don't venture into the woods alone."

***o*O*o***

"I thought you weren't going to come."

Santana almost laughs at how high Rachel jumps and the startled girl whacks her on the arm for her trouble. "How did you get behind me when I was following you?"

"Because you make a horrible spy," Santana chides, cocking her head a little and suddenly Tina comes into view.

"You're recruiting more people?" Rachel gasps even though her voice is hushed.

"I told Tina about the boy who looks like her. She wanted to see for herself."

"If we get caught…"Rachel cautions, knowingly not needing to finish the threat.

Santana smirks. "Then we just won't get caught."

***o*O*o***

Brittany stares at the walls of her room for the longest time, sleep eluding her.

Her brain won't turn off and she keeps replaying the conversation they'd had in the barn.

Savages.

Indians.

Michael had seen one and he was okay.

So, how could they be bad people then if they didn't hurt Michael?

Each and every time she thought about it, her mind kept coming to Quinn's last warning to not travel the woods alone.

She really had to find out for herself but did she dare risk traversing the unknown territory alone?

***o*O*o***

"That hut is so _big_," Tina says, sitting next to Santana on one of the tree branches.

"It is," Santana agrees, eyes coasting from window to window, watching intently for some movement from within.

"Now," Rachel says, her tone authoritative, "Tina has seen the place. Let's leave here."

"I haven't' seen the boy with slanted eyes, yet," Tina justifies. "The boy like me."

"It is dark. They are probably asleep. Like we should be," Rachel sniffs.

"You are no fun, Rachel," Santana grumbles, poking the grouchy girl in the cheek with a finger.

"I think…I think I see something," Tina says, squinting in the darkness and Santana refocuses her attention, barely making out two shadowy figures before racing down the tree.

"Santana," Rachel hisses as loudly as she dares. "Where are you going?"

"For a closer look."

***o*O*o***

"Maybe we should turn back, Brittany."

"We've barely started," Brittany replies, gamely pressing onward.

Somehow she'd managed to get Michael to go along with her – in all honesty she told him where she was going and he jumped out of bed hurriedly, snatching a lantern before she could even blink – and now the duo were blindly delving deeper into the wood, exploring.

"It seems it would be wiser to do this during the daylight," Michael tries again.

"Mother would never allow it and you know it, Michael."

"But what if we run into a – what was that?"

"What was what?" Brittany asks, worriedly. "Michael?" she questions again after a moment with no response. "Michael Chang-Pierce, answer me this instant."

"Brittany," Michael says, sounding as if he's standing more than a few feet away from her. "Don't move a muscle."

Brittany's entire body goes rigid and her breathing quickens imperceptibly. "Why?"

"There's something to the side of you. I don't know what it is. A strange-looking horse perhaps."

"Michael what are we going to do? Is it going to eat us?"

***o*O*o***

"What are they doing?" Tina asks quietly, watching the scene play out before them.

"Maybe they're hunting," Rachel offers helpfully, finding the scene quite perplexing herself.

"But they don't have any arrows," Tina adds.

"I think they're scared," Santana says, stepping closer.

"Santana," Tina and Rachel say, both reaching and grasping air as Santana darts away.

***o*O*o***

"Uh oh."

"What?" Brittany hisses. "What Michael, what?"

"Okay," Michael breathes, just a tad short of hyperventilating. "Okay. I need to get help."

"Don't leave me."

"It's an Indian, Brittany," Michael nearly squeaks, watching the strange girl pad quietly over to the animal, her eyes darting between Brittany and himself.

"What?" Brittany whispers out, not able to stop herself from turning her head, her jaw growing slack as she watches the Indian girl slowly reach out for the animal, the creature only moving slightly as she brushes a darkened hand along its sleek coat, calming it.

Brittany jumps slightly when Michael's hand slips into her own, the boy leaning close to her ear. "Let's go," he whispers, warily eyeing the stranger.

"She's just a girl. She's not going to hurt us," Brittany says, watching the other girl's head tilt slightly in confusion.

"But what if there are more of her?"

***o*O*o***

Santana tilts her head, wondering what the strange pale-faces are playing at. Their words are funny and they move so jerkily, almost like they're out of place in their own skin.

"Hello," she says, trying to put them at ease but the sound seems to have the adverse effect, the two people stepping away from her slightly.

She doesn't understand. She's not trying to frighten them, but then Rachel and Tina makes their presence known alongside her and their apprehension makes more sense.

"He looks just like me," Tina muses, staring at the boy intently.

"I can't understand what they are saying," Santana says, her eyes fixed firmly on the fair-haired girl in front of them.

"Let me try something," Rachel says, stepping forward just a little bit and holding up her hand.

***o*O*o***

"Hello."

Brittany blinks. As does Michael.

Then she blinks again.

"Did she just-"

"Hello," Brittany cuts him off, her voice enthusiastic as she steps forward quickly, startling the creature and the three girls.

***o*O*o***

Santana pats the doe, calming it once again.

The other girl has stopped moving towards them and she's glad because startled deer like to kick, but then-

"You know their words," she accuses, pointing a finger at Rachel.

"I remember some things," Rachel says, looking sheepish.

"Well, say it again," Santana commands. "Go on."

"Hello."

***o*O*o***

Brittany smiles brilliantly, not moving this time though. "Hello. Oh, hello. This is fantastic. Isn't it fantastic, Michael?"

"It is something," Michael comments dryly, still floored.

"I wonder if she knows any other words," Brittany says aloud, stepping closer.

***o*O*o***

"Say something else."

"Santana, I don't know anything else," Rachel insists.

"Think, Rachel. Try. Say something else," Santana implores, not wanting this encounter to end.

Rachel gestures to her chest, pointing a finger directly to her heart. "Rachel."

***o*O*o***

"Rachel," Michael echoes clearly, eyebrow raising comically and all the strange girls laugh at him, making him blush slightly.

"Is that her name? I think she's saying that's her name," Brittany says, repeating the girl's finger to heart gesture. "I'm Brittany. Brittany," she says slowly, enunciating the syllables in her name.

"Brittany," the girl repeats, looking like the word tastes funny in her mouth and that makes Brittany laugh. "Your turn," she says to Michael, turning slightly to look at him.

Michael clears his throat, pointing a finger to his chest. "Michael," he croaks out, feeling nervous.

"Michael," Rachel repeats, grinning shyly and Michael smiles wide.

"I think she likes me," the boy says, nudging his elbow against Brittany's.

But Brittany's eyes have not moved, intrigued by the first girl who'd presented herself to them.

She points to her, nodding slightly and delighting when Rachel's eyes appear to brighten in recognition.

Rachel places an open palm to the girl's sternum, pressing slightly before speaking. "Santana," she says slowly.

Brittany lets the syllables play over in her head before she bothers repeating them, surprised with how they seem to just roll off of her tongue. She smiles warmly, invitingly, "Santana."

***o*O*o***

Santana feels her chest warm up and tighten when the other girl says her name, quietly and reverently, but their moment is shattered as loud noises echo into the night.

"Brittany!"

The doe takes off like a shot, darting back into the woods and Rachel and Tina both frantically look around, wondering where the noises are coming from.

"Michael!"

"Come on, Brittany," Michael says, grabbing the girl by the hand and walking away quickly, Santana only getting one last glimpse at her worried face before Rachel's pulling her away as well.

It was only an instant, barely a glance, but that last lingering look stoked the fire of intrigue in Santana.

One thing was for certain: she'd be back.

***o*O*o***

Santana went through great pains to make sure no one saw her sneaking off.

It's not that she minded Tina and Rachel's company the other night, but, she wanted to see these people for herself.

Interact with them on a one on one basis.

Especially that one girl with the light eyes.

It's relatively dark as she slowly approaches the massive hut, ever vigilant, not wanting to get caught off guard in such strange and unfamiliar territory.

She's so aware of her immediate surroundings that she startles tremendously when suddenly the hut bursts open, the lanky boy from the night before laughing lightly as he carries something in his strong hands.

Santana ducks back into the shadows, ducking near the corner of the stairs and watches.

"I could've carried the trash out, Michael," Brittany says, stomping out onto the porch after him.

"I am sure you could have, Brittany," Michael laughs, dumping the leavings from dinner onto the compost heap.

"Don't promenade, me," Brittany pouts, leaning against one of the porch posts, her half-eaten slice of pie still sitting untouched on her plate.

"I'm not _patronizing_ you," Michael dismisses, brushing his hands on his pants. "But, I'll take that pie if you won't have it."

He reaches for it but Brittany moves her hand away so all he grabs at is air. "I _will_ have it."

Santana can't quite hold back her giggle and, unfortunately, it's just loud enough for Brittany to hear. The blonde's head swivels around, peering quietly into the darkness.

Michael shrugs, smiling. "Fine. I'll go get another," he says, moving to head back inside. "Are you not coming?"

"I…Just give me a moment," Brittany says quietly, eyes still scanning the dark. He leaves her alone and Brittany stares hard, eyes roaming up and down where the trees meet their clearing.

Nothing moves, in fact, nothing even makes a sound.

"Maybe I'm just hearing things," she whispers, shoulders dropping just a tad and she moves to go back inside.

"Brittany," Santana says clearly, her voice not loud but definitely not quiet either.

"Who said that?" Brittany asks, head whipping around and seeing nothing again. "Samuel, if that is you I am _so _telling Father."

Swallowing the feeling of anxiousness down, Santana slowly crawls out from the shadows underneath the porch, her eyes wide and unblinking as she observes the other girl. "Brittany," she repeats again, holding her hand up in greeting.

The tense set of Brittany's shoulders drops immediately and she looks behind her quickly, making sure everyone inside is occupied before rushing down the stairs, grabbing the other girl's arm with her free hand and pulling her around the back of the complex, a place where they're hidden from everyone.

She's quiet and a little out of breath when she settles in front of her, a grin inexplicably stretched across her face. "Good evening," Brittany breathes.

Santana's lips press together, a shy smile tugging at her lips as she shakes her head.

"Oh, yes. That's right," Brittany says, rolling her eyes. "You don't speak English. Sorry, I forget things sometimes," she explains, then rolls her eyes again. "And you still haven't a clue what I'm saying."

Santana grins, placing a hand over the other girl's mouth suddenly. She giggles at Brittany's wide-eyed expression. "Brittany," she says, gesturing to Brittany with a tilt of her head. She removes her hand from Brittany's mouth and puts in on her own and then on her sternum. "Santana."

Brittany frowns, thinking. "You…want me to teach you how to talk? Talk like me?"

Santana grunts, nodding once firmly. She thinks maybe Brittany understands.

She knows for sure when Brittany lips stretch into a slow smile. "I think that can be arranged."

***o*O*o***

_**Four Months Later **_

Chayton hands Santana a rose crystal. "I saw it and it reminded me of you."

Santana turns the small rock over in her hand. "It is nice. Thank you."

"It is beautiful," Chayton corrects, stepping closer to the girl and trailing his calloused fingers over her soft cheek.

Santana swallows thickly, her eyes darting around. "I have to go," she rushes to say, pushing his hand away. "I promised Tina I would help her in the field."

Chayton stands there for a long while, watching Santana move further and further away from him before turning sullenly, heading back to his hut.

Hinto observes the scene with a small frown, not knowing what to make of his daughter's actions.

"What troubles you my husband?" Doli, Santana's mother, asks, sprinkling more hardened kernels into the bowl before grinding away.

"I do not understand," Hinto starts, scratching his chin in thought. "Chayton is a more than worthy suitor and our daughter does not even look at him. What are we going to do with her, Doli?"

"Come," Doli beckons, pointing to the mud hutch, covered with buckskin and gesturing for Hinto to sit down. "You must not let these things muddle your mind. Santana will marry when the time is for it to be so."

"I just…" Hinto sighs. "I worry about her so much. This world is not safe, Doli. And I will not be around to protect her always."

"I don't think she needs very much protecting," Doli says, her eyes smiling. "She is her father's daughter after all."

***o*O*o***

Brittany and Quinn are lazily enjoying the shade as the boys tended to the field hands, barking out instructions in the sweltering summer heat.

"Brittany?"

"Hmm?" Brittany asks, her blue eyes hidden behind shut eyelids.

"Would you mind it very much if I was to become your sister?"

Brittany blinks her eyes open and carefully regards the other girl. "Are you and Samuel thinking of marrying?"

Quinn nods, practically jubilant. "He's going to ask Father's permission any day now. Isn't it grand?"

Brittany shrugs. "I imagine so."

Quinn's wide smile falters just a bit as she takes in Brittany's seeming indifference. "Are you not happy for me, Brittany?"

"It's not that," Brittany reassures her, shaking her head furiously. "I just don't see what the big deal is about marriage."

Quinn grins again. "It's like a promise that when you love someone, you always will."

Brittany thinks on this. "I can marry Lord Tubbington?"

"It has to be another _person_, Brittany," Quinn explains with a laugh.

"I can marry Michael?" Brittany questions, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Quinn shakes her head. "You can't be related to the person either."

Brittany sighs, crossing her arms resolutely. "It would seem that I am not fit to marry then."

Quinn laughs, hugging her friend with one arm lightly. "You will find love, Brittany. I know it."

"What are you two hens clucking about?" Samuel asks, taking a long draught from his canteen.

"Womanly things," Quinn replies, smiling at him enchantingly.

"HOOT! HOOT!"

Brittany holds back a grin as Samuel grumbles, Michael climbing up the porch steps and sharing a knowing look with his sister.

"It's that annoying, confused owl again," Samuel bemoans, searching the treetops. "If I ever see the cursed thing, I'll shoot it."

"You'll do no such thing," Brittany says, frowning as she stands abruptly and stomps down the steps.

"Where are you going?" Samuel demands.

"Anywhere you are not, you dreadful…_boy_."

Samuel rolls his eyes as she marches around the side of the complex, hitching up her dress, ever mindful of the gravel beneath her feet. Casting one last long, anxious glance over her shoulder, Brittany steps into the woods, moving swiftly until she comes to the marked tree.

"Santana!" she yells, eyes searching skyward. "I keep telling you that owls come out at night time, you silly girl."

Brittany's still searching the trees when Santana lands quietly right behind her. "How Brittany know Santana?" she asks, pouting slightly.

Brittany turns slowly, smile already in place. "I always know when it's you," she says quietly, adding a playful, "You always do the owl."

On cue, Santana hoots and Brittany giggles, putting a soft hand over her mouth to silence the other girl. Santana nods, her eyes fluttering as Brittany slowly pulls her hand away and she catches it, clasping their hands together like she's seen the other boy and girl that live with Brittany do. She grins. "Hello, Brittany."

Brittany blushes, her hand feeling just a tad clammy. "Hello, Santana."

"Read?" Santana asks gently, her eyebrows and facial expression pleading and Brittany just nods, laughing a little when Santana instantly pulls her along.

***o*O*o***

They'd made it to their spot, far enough removed from everyone to enjoy their privacy.

They're sitting in the grass, Santana still clasping Brittany's hand in her own.

"…true love's kiss," Brittany concludes, closing the book on the illustration of the princess and the prince kissing quietly, looking up as Santana's quiet giggles reach her ears.

"What's so funny?" Brittany prods, poking the girl in the shoulder.

"Kiss," Santana echoes, explaining. "Funny word."

"Well, how do you say it?" Brittany asks, eyes looking directly into the brown ones in front of her.

Santana falls quiet, pointing at herself. "Santana?"

Brittany nods. "Yes, you, Santana. How does Santana say it?"

Santana bites her lips, anxious. It usually doesn't work this way. Usually, she learns Brittany's words. This is the first time Brittany's ever attempted to learn one of hers.

Santana swallows, only barely registering the fact she's still holding onto Brittany's hand. "Kwathe' te," she says, syllables dragging out slowly.

"Kwathe' te," Brittany repeats, smile softening into something unrecognizable as she shifts on the ground so that she's facing Santana more squarely. "Kwathe' te me."

Santana blinks before smiling and surging forward, kissing Brittany on the nose before falling back on her haunches.

Brittany grins, eyes fluttering back open – they'd closed the moment Santana leaned in. "Kwathe' te me…" she starts, taking her free hand and pressing a finger against her lips, watching Santana's eyes follow her movements, "…here," she finishes in a whisper, eyes falling shut again.

It feels like an eternity passes before Brittany hears the quiet movement, Santana's hand tightening around hers as the girl shifts.

And there it is; the gentlest pressure against her lips and she can't help the sudden intake of breath as Santana presses harder, moving just slightly so that they are truly kissing.

It's over soon enough and when she opens her eyes Santana's staring at her curiously, the girl's free hand suspended in the air for a moment before dropping onto Brittany's cheek, brushing the skin delicately. "True love's kiss," Santana says, her English unwavering.

Brittany nods, smiling and then smiling harder when Santana returns it. "True love's kiss."

***o*O*o***

Santana almost stumbles the entire way back to her village, feeling full in a way she's never felt before.

"There you are," Rachel says, showing up from out of nowhere and gripping Santana's wrist so tightly it almost hurts.

"Rachel," Santana grunts, dragging her feet as the other girl pulls her along. The huts are empty as they pass by. "What is going on?"

"Your father has summoned the village elders. There is to be a big announcement."

Sure enough, the entire village is there when they reach the communal fire, the flames blazing away.

Rachel drags her over to their mother who gives Santana a fleeting disappointed look before it melts away with a smile.

Chief Hinto raises his hands, silencing the quiet murmurs. "Friends, neighbors," he starts, eyes traveling from one familiar face to another. "I have called you here to discuss the new things happening. As I am sure you have all heard, there are new pale-faces among us. We do not know these people and we do not wish to know these people. The best way to deal with the pale-face is to avoid the pale-face. It is my decree that the easternmost forest be treated as forbidden ground. No member of this tribe shall venture there. Pale-faces are dangerous and should be treated as such."

Quiet, scared mumblings filter through the crowd and Santana feels something welling within her. She rises, speaking even before the words fully formulate in her head. "Father," Santana starts, unwavering when his eyes settle on her, "How do you know the pale-faces are dangerous?"

"I know things, my child," Hinto dismisses. "I am a wise man."

"But how do you know _these_ pale-faces-"

"All pale-faces are dangerous!" Hinto roars, his anger getting the better of him. Santana flinches, but she does not sit down, literally standing firm in her stance. "No one from this tribe shall speak to them. And that is the law!"

***o*O*o***

"What was that this evening?" Hinto yells, pacing as Santana sits in front of him. "I try to make rules for the sake of our people and you, my own child, question it? Explain yourself!" he demands.

Santana's scared because her father has never yelled at her like this before; she's never seen him so angry, and the fear in her makes her voice quiver, coming out tiny and small. "I just…I want to know about them, Father. Maybe they are only different. Different from us."

Doli had been watching quietly, but, after she sees the tears streaming from her daughter's eyes, she puts the weaving loom down, walking over to her husband and gently touching his arm. "Perhaps it is time to tell her Hinto," she prompts, gesturing for him to sit down next to his daughter.

Hinto sighs wearily, his shoulders drooping slightly as he settles in close to Santana and Doli leaves the, giving father and daughter a moment of privacy.

"Santana," Hinto starts, his voice hard but he stops himself short and softens his tone. "Princess," he tries again, watching her closely. "Do you know why they call me Hinto?"

"Because that is your name, Father."

"Yes. But do you know why else?" he asks.

Santana slowly shakes her head in the negative.

"Hinto means 'Blue Eyes'. Now, how many other men have you seen with eyes like mine?"

"Not very many Father, but there are not very many men like you here."

Hinto smiles. "You are very kind, Santana. But, I need you to know the truth about something – the truth about my eyes. My mother, your grandmother, was almost your age when it happened. She was to be married to my father in the next seventh sun when they came to her village – the pale-faces. They stole, burned down the huts for no reason, and…and they hurt the women. One of the women…one of the women was my mother."

"But, I…I don't understand," Santana starts, confused. "How did they hurt her?"

Hinto swallows. "The men in our village do not have eyes like mine but…the pale-faces do."

Santana gasps, understanding instantly. "Do you mean-"

"Yes," Hinto interrupts, swallowing again against a tightening throat. "Now do you see? Do you understand when I say I want you to stay far away from the pale-faces?"

Santana nods, feeling numb. "Yes Father."

***o*O*o***

Santana cannot sleep.

She cannot sleep and so she finds herself sitting in her favorite tree, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

She keeps replaying her father's words in her head, trying to reconcile them with the people she's some to know.

She knows without a shadow of a doubt that Brittany would never hurt her. But…the boy; Brittany's brother.

She does not quite know what to think now.

***o*O*o***

Brittany waits until she's sure everyone is asleep.

She knows it's dangerous to navigate the woods without Santana, especially this late at night, but after the afternoon she's spent with the girl, she cannot wait until tomorrow to see her.

It's hard to explain, the feelings she's having, but every time she even thinks about Santana these days she smiles stupidly like Samuel whenever he sees Quinn.

She doesn't want to think it because it's completely absurd. They're so different and, she supposes, technically they aren't even supposed to see one another but she thinks…she thinks maybe she might be in love.

It's the only thing that would explain why she is currently blindly moving deeper into the darkened woods, hooting loudly every other step or so.

***o*O*o***

Santana sits up straighter in the tree when she hears the distant hooting and her eyes instantly hone in on the moving brush, catching a shock of golden hair and a flash of milky-white skin.

Within seconds she's on the ground and moments later, she's standing right in front of the other girl, unmoving.

Brittany rushes her, wrapping her arms around her in a firm hug. "I found you," she squeals, squeezing tightly.

Santana stands rigid; her head and heart at war.

Brittany notices. "What's wrong?" she asks worriedly, pulling away slightly.

Santana doesn't have the words to say it but she tries anyway. "Brittany brother," she starts and Brittany nods, smiling brightly again.

"Michael," she prompts but Santana shakes her head.

"Samuel?" Brittany guesses this time, watching the other girl's eyes light up in recognition.

"Yes," Santana says, choosing her words carefully. "Samuel, hurt me?"

Brittany's eyes widen knowingly and she hurriedly takes hold of Santana's hands. "Samuel would never hurt you," she avows passionately. "He would never."

Santana still doesn't look too convinced. "I'll prove it to you," Brittany continues. "Come tomorrow and you can meet him. Samuel is not bad, Santana. I promise."

Santana sighs, relief flooding her body as she understands Brittany's words. "Yes," she nods, agreeing.

***o*O*o***

Ever since the newest crop of pale-faces has turned up, Hinto has been worried about the safety of the tribe. So, every night he's had several of the young warriors stand guard, protecting the village's perimeters until dawn.

On this night Puck is on guard, trying to stay awake as he mans his post. His eyes are just about to drop closed (again) but the sound of hushed voices talking reaches his ears.

Intrigued, Puck rises on his knees, body crouched low to the ground as he moves closer to the strange noises.

Oddly enough, one of the voices sounds very familiar and, as he nears the small clearing, he realizes why.

Santana is sitting on a fallen tree trunk, right next to a young pale-face girl and they are smiling and laughing at one another and speaking in words Puck cannot understand.

His eyes widen even more when the strange girl leans over and kisses Santana right on the mouth.

Puck's jaw drops, and he backs away against a tree, chest heaving. He can't make sense of what he's just witnessed.

Santana in the company of a pale-face.

Santana kissing a pale-face.

Santana kissing a…girl?

It is just all so very strange and Puck is not the sharpest hatchet in the armory so he can't even begin to comprehend what it means.

***o*O*o***

"Santana," Doli says, just as her daughter is walking out of the hut. "Where are you going? Chayton is coming to see you."

It is the next day, and the sun is already too low in the sky for Santana's liking. She does not want to keep Brittany waiting.

Still, she plasters on a smile for her mother's sake, turning around. "I will be back shortly, Mother. I am going to see Tina."

Doli shakes her head, frown deepening as Santana turns to leave again.

The girl is oblivious to the eyes following her every movement. "That is not the way to Tina's hut," Hinto observes aloud and Puck nods. "I am sorry to say, Chief, but she is going to see the pale-face."

***o*O*o***

"You've been what?" Samuel bellows. "I am telling Mother and Father."

"Don't," Brittany pleads, blocking his path. "Please don't."

"Brittany, you've been gallivanting with Indians. You and Michael, both," Quinn says. "Do you realize what kind of danger you've put us in?"

"They're not dangerous."

"Are you mad? They're savages!" Samuel barks, flinching back when Michael advances darkly at him.

"Don't call her that," Michael warns, voice low. After spending so much time with Tina he's become fiercely protective. "She's _not_ a savage."

Brittany moves between the boys, breaking the glaring contests between them and making Samuel meet her eye. "Samuel," she starts, eyes pleading. "I'll make you a deal: Meet one of them."

Samuel's eyes go round. "You _have_ gone mad."

"Sam, please," Brittany begs. "Meet one of them," she repeats, "And if you still think they are dangerous, you can tell Father."

"Brittany," Michael attempts to protest, not liking this plan at all. He doesn't quite trust his "brother."

At all.

Samuel looks at Brittany, takes in the tears forming in her eyes and he sighs, caving. "Fine. I'll meet with the– your _friends_, but if I still don't think they're safe, I _am _telling Father."

"Deal."

***o*O*o***

"But Father-"

"It is not up for debate. You directly disobeyed me, Santana. And what's worse is that you put your sister and your friend in danger as well."

Hinto is furious and he is taking great pains to keep his temper.

Santana is crying and Rachel and Tina wait outside the hut, sharing guilty glances.

Hinto paces, staring down at his daughter, not knowing what to do. She's never openly defied him before.

What was going on with the girl?

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Hinto demands.

"I…I…" _love her_.

It's what she wants to say but the words don't come out and Hinto angrily stalks away, fed up.

***o*O*o***

"I wonder what's taking her so long," Michael whispers, eyes searching the woods.

It's eerily quiet for the late afternoon and Brittany shrugs, even though she's wondering the same thing.

She bites her lip anxiously. "I don't know."

Samuel snorts. "Maybe her pocket watch's time is off."

Brittany's scathing and brilliant retort – _Maybe _your _pocket watch's time is off_ – dies on the tip of her tongue when the brush rustles and a young man emerges, strange ornaments decorating his ear and arms covered in black ink.

"I thought you said it was a girl, Brittany," Quinn whispers, her breath catching.

"She is," Brittany maintains, eyeing the boy warily. "Maybe he's one of her friends."

Two more men emerge from the woods, grinning but something about their smiles looks less than welcoming.

Samuel rises, alarmed. "They don't look very friendly."

A loud shrieking cry pierces the silenced and before they can blink the forest explodes with activity, Indian men of all ages rushing upon them.

***o*O*o***

"It was you."

Puck blinks, eyes focusing on the finger in his face.

Following the finger he sees an angry Rachel attached to it and an even angrier-looking Tina.

"What?"

Rachel flicks him. "Tina and I did not tell Hinto about Santana and the pale-face and no one else knew so that only leaves you."

"They are pale-faces, Rachel," Puck contends, sure he's right about this.

"You are so stupid," Rachel sniffs. "You _and_ Hinto. They are just people. People like us. They don't want to harm us any more than we want to harm them."

Puck shakes his head, unbelieving. "You are wrong."

"Then how come we're not dead? Or hurt?"

"Because…because…"

"Because you are stupid," Rachel states again, flicking him between the eyebrows.

***o*O*o***

Hinto reacts instantly to the sound of the warning drum, grabbing his quiver and bow before dashing out of the hut.

"What is the trouble, Brother?" he asks, Ashkii, following the rest of the tribesmen to the source of the commotion.

"The pale-faces have entered our territory."

***o*O*o***

"Brittany," Duncan gasps, leaning heavily on his two boys. There's an arrow sticking out of his chest, blood soaking into his cloak. "How much farther?"

Their complex has been attacked by the natives, although Brittany is almost certain that those men aren't of Santana tribe. Still, she couldn't be sure which meant that leading everyone into the heart of Santana's village could be an incredibly idiotic idea.

"Not much farther, Father," Brittany assures him, trudging on or at least attempting to.

She can't very well walk through another person, can she?

Quinn gulps, moving closer to her father and Samuel as the group of natives circles around them.

One, much larger than the rest, steps forward but in a flash Mr. Fabray and Samuel have drawn their muskets.

"No!"

***o*O*o***

"Santana!" Tina pants, bursting into their hut startling both Santana and her mother. "Come. Now. It's Brittany."

Doli calls after her in vain as the girl streaks through the woods, taking the quickest route to Brittany's complex.

When they get there, her rapidly beating heart drops down to her toes. Everything is in disarray.

The fields are burning and the house look like a herd of buffalo have trampled through it.

Puck and Rachel stand there, staring at the mess. "What happened?" she asks them, hoping for pleasant news.

"The Pawnee," Puck responds, a broken arrowhead in the palm of his hand.

"Where's-" Santana starts but a boom like thunder sounds just then, the noise rumbling from the distance and she takes off like a shot again, dodging trees with ease and nearly a blur as she races toward the sound.

***o*O*o***

Hinto startles when the pale-face girl yells and ducks when the boom echoes immediately after.

"Stay back," Russell growls, turning his rifle on one savage, then another.

He can't shoot them all but he is silently vowing to not go down without a fight.

"I'm warning you," Russell cautions.

"Mr. Fabray," Brittany starts, attempting to diffuse the situation. "They aren't trying to hurt us."

"You foolish girl," Russell scoffs. "These things have impaled your poor father and you say they aren't trying to hurt us?"

"These are not the same people," Brittany implores, willing him to believe her. "At least, I don't think they are."

"Brittany!"

***o*O*o***

Hinto's eyes widen as his daughter pushes through the tribesmen and embraces the girl pale-face, the one who'd just yelled.

"Brittany okay," Santana murmurs, rubbing her cheek affectionately against smooth skin. "Brittany."

"What in Heaven's," Abigail starts.

"Santana," Brittany says, pulling back to look at the girl. "My father. He's hurt."

With a nod, Santana turns to face Hinto, still gripping Brittany's hand tightly.

Santana's known her father her entire life, so she can read him better than most people, but the emotion she sees etched clearly across his face is one she's never seen on him before.

He's afraid.

She smiles at him warmly in reassurance. "Father," she says. "The pale-face is hurt, bad."

She watches as his eyes flicker to the injured man. Duncan's breaths are weakening and he's struggling for air.

"He needs help. Our help. They don't want to hurt us, Father."

"Mr. Fabray," Brittany tries, placing her hand over Samuel's weapon. "Let them help us. They only want to help."

"Listen to her, Russell," Duncan wheezes weakly. "We don't have very many options, do we? Besides, Brittany has a good heart. How can one go wrong with that?"

"Come on," Brittany whispers, coaxing Samuel's finger away from the trigger. "Put them away."

Russell and Samuel lower their weapons.

Hinto grunts out an order for the tribe to do the same.

***o*O*o***

_**Two months later…**_

Hinto stands awkwardly in the item, his arms hanging loosely by his side.

In front of him, Abigail and Judith are watching expectantly, waiting to see what his reaction will be.

"Well, Chief Hinto?" Judith prompts. "What do you think?"

Hinto tugs the material closer to his chest, marveling in its smoothness. Slowly, he leans down to his daughter, mumbling quietly into Santana's ear.

Santana laughs loudly when he finishes. "Father wants to know what is its name?"

"It's a shirt," Abigail informs him and Hinto finally breaks out into a smile.

"A shirt," he repeats, laughing grandly, his deep chuckles rolling off of the hut walls. He adds something unintelligible and Judith cocks an eyebrow, confused.

"Father likes shirt," Santana informs them, just as Hinto steps to the hut's entrance, fist pounding his chest, once. "Hinto! Shirt!" he declares proudly, stepping out and greeting a few of his fellow tribesman.

Judith and Abigail watch him leave, both of their heads cocked at an angle, before they turn back to one another.

"Pants."

***o*O*o***

Puck shuffles along the ground, fresh from a day of wood harvesting.

Winter is quickly approaching and the process has taken longer than usual what with the lingering threat of war with the coastal tribe.

He plops down underneath a tree, reaching into his leather satchel and pulling out a fistful of ripened berries, munching intently.

Not long after, Samuel comes into view, the boy not used to the treacherous terrain of the forest.

He leaves a good amount of distance between Puck and himself when he sits down, wiping the back of his sweaty neck with a rag.

Puck continues eating, his lips smacking noisily as he chows down on the fruit and Sam looks up, licking his lips and eyes longing.

Puck turns, cradling his food and glaring at the boy before pointedly eating another handful.

When Rachel shows up, Quinn in tow, Puck smiles at her, patting the ground beside him enthusiastically.

Rachel obliges and Quinn goes over to a glowering Samuel, taking hold of his hand. "What's wrong?"

Samuel's eyes cut over to Puck before meeting pretty green ones. "I'm hungry."

"Well don't pout about it, silly," Quinn laughs off, tugging on his hand. "Let's go get you something to eat."

"He's got food," Samuel spits out, darkly staring at Puck. "But he won't share."

"Puck's!" Puck shouts, clutching his satchel tighter.

Quinn shares a pointed look with the other girl and they both nod before Rachel speaks to Puck.

"Puck, share."

Quinn watches in amusement as the native boy's eyes widen comically and he shakes his head furiously in objection.

He must not like what Rachel's telling him one bit.

Rachel smiles, leaning in to whisper something in his ear, and Puck stares straight ahead for a couple more moments before his arm shoots out to the side, holding his open satchel out to Samuel.

Samuel looks at it and gingerly takes the bag away, muttering out a quick 'Thank you' and Puck grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest until Rachel leans up to kiss his cheek.

Puck forgets all about the berries.

***o*O*o***

"How's that Father?" Brittany asks, settling him down into a comfortable position. Well, as comfortable as possible when sitting on a piece of buckskin-covered clay.

"Brittany, I am fine," Duncan says, shaking off his daughter's grip. "I've told you time and time again. I'm not an invalid."

"I know. I just worry-"

"I know you do," Duncan cuts her off gently, holding onto her hand. "I know you worry about me. But, you mustn't. My recovery is much better than we expected. If anything, I'd be more worried about that native friend of yours and her tendency to climb tall things."

"Huh?"

Duncan nods upwards and Brittany squints against a bright autumn sun to where Santana is sitting, quietly watching the scene play out below her with a small smile.

"Are you spying on me?" Brittany asks, smiling brightly.

Santana nods, easily swinging down from the tall tree. "Is Brittany's father okay?" she asks, peering beyond Brittany's shoulder to the still frail-looking old man.

"I'm fine, Santana," Duncan informs her, smiling. "You can talk to me directly, you know?"

Santana nods, her cheeks reddening and Brittany giggles, poking at them playfully. "You're making her blush, Father."

"I think that's all you, Dearest," Duncan states sagely, watching as his daughter's eyes widen somewhat.

"Um…" Brittany starts, her tongue feeling heavy, especially when Santana – completely oblivious – buries her face into the other girl's neck affectionately.

"Your mother doesn't quite understand but I am certain she will come around," he continues, giving the girl a knowing look. "Well, run along, children. No need to watch the grass growing with me."

Brittany shakes her head in disbelief, but Santana is glad for the dismissal, pulling Brittany along until they reach the edge of the river.

"Santana…" Brittany starts but the other girl beats her to it, leaning in and pressing her lips against Brittany's as earnestly as she can. When she pulls back, Santana's eyes are clear and her swollen lips are twitching upward into a smile.

"Father says I don't have to marry Chayton," Santana says, almost blissfully. "He says I can marry who I love."

Brittany's heart falls to the bottom of her stomach. "I don't want you to marry a boy."

"I don't _want_ to marry a boy," the other girl says, voice clear. "I want to be with you, Brittany. Only you."

Brittany smiles, gasping a little. "It will be crazy."

Santana shakes her head, grasping Brittany's hands. "I don't care."

"My mother-"

Santana presses a quick kiss to Brittany's lips. "Will come around," she mumbles quietly after she pulls away. "Your father says she will."

Brittany allows the smile on her face to widen, staring into dark eyes she's grown so accustomed to, and what she sees there makes what she says next nothing but a formality. "Nayeli, Santana."

Santana grins, nuzzling her nose against Brittany's gently before whispering quietly. "I love you, too."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note #2:<strong> Alright you historical accuracy buffs, I know that some aspects of this story are just not historically correct but, for the sake of telling a story, let's just suspend belief fotr a moment. Glee does it all the time.


	28. The Good and The Bad

**June 3, 2011**

"Hey Art."

The man looks up from his desk, glasses resting just off the bridge of his nose. "Yeah?"

"They've just brought a new one in. Feisty little thing," the other man chuckles, still hanging onto the half-opened door. "Kicked Goldberg in the jewels."

"Jeez," Arthur mumbles, hissing slightly.

"Yeah and guess what?" the man prompts, smirking. "Boss wants _you_ to have a look at her."

Arthur's eyes widen. "Me?"

"Yeah. You did such a good job with that Puckerman kid, he thinks you'd be just the guy to straighten this one out."

"I dunno," Arthurs starts, rubbing his fingers over a shorter patch of hair in his frock. "That Noah was quite the handful. My hair still hasn't really grown out right."

The other man shrugs. "It's not like you have a choice."

When Arthur Pierce decided some twenty years ago to become a social worker, the world was a much different place.

Kids' main concerns were saying no to drugs and getting good grades. But now, today's tough economy meant that kids were forced to grow up sooner than necessary; forced to fend for themselves because of neglectful parents.

Before, he could flash a troubled kid a warm smile and an encouraging word and it would be enough to get them back on the right path, but the one sitting before him now had been burned so badly by adults that trust was clearly going to be an issue.

Quietly, he goes through the girl's – thick as a phonebook – file, sifting through documents detailing everything from arrests to overnight stays at juvenile hall. And buried underneath all the police work and disciplinary actions he stumbles upon two very telling items. The first is a report card – haggard and worn – but the marks on it reflect the accomplishments of a very intelligent individual.

The second is a family snapshot. It's old as well and almost falls apart in his hands, but the three people depicted – "Mama and Papa and Me" is scribbled in green crayon on the back – look happy.

What happened to turn that little girl in the picture from a rosy-cheeked gap-tooth smiling youth to the slumped over, grungy adolescent sitting in front of him now?

"Take a picture," the girl grumbles with a scowl, still fiddling with her nails. "It'll last longer."

Arthur sighs, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Santana Lopez," he starts to read from her file. "Seventeen years-old, born February 4, 1994-"

"Congratulations," she states dryly. "You can read."

Arthur fights back a grin. "And so can you," he replies, staring pointedly at the sign just next to the wall clock.

Santana follows his line of sight, rolls her eyes, but promptly removes the hat anyway.

What kind of a rule was "No headgear indoors" anyway?

"That's better," he states with a smile. "Now I can actually see your pretty face."

Santana frowns. "Are you some kind of a pervert or something?"

That statement makes the older man's breath catch awkwardly, caught entirely off-guard by the inappropriate comment. "I have a daughter your age," he says, appalled.

"Trust me: having a daughter and being a pervert are _not_ mutually exclusive."

"That's a horrible thing to say, Santana," he chastises and she yawns in response. "But, for the record, no. I am not."

She stares at him; he can feel her sizing him up, wondering if she should even let her guard down long enough to let him attempt to try to win her over. Her eyes take in his appearance; the wedding ring on his finger, the gray sprinkled atop his head. She traces the plaques hanging on his walls, degrees and accommodations accumulated over the years. And lastly, she studies the pictures lining his desk; the members of his family all smiling, moments of joy captured for eternity.

She shrugs.

"I guess it's cool," she mutters, turning her attention back to her nails. "You know, that you're not a pervert."

Arthur smiles.

**September 21, 2011**

"Brittany?"

The blonde girl looks up from her own toes into eyes that shine as bright as hers, even if they are another color. "Yes, Caroline."

Brittany's little sister flops closer on the bed, inspecting the vials of polish with earnest. "How comes they makes polish in so many colors?"

Brittany blinks, mulling the question over thoughtfully. "Because people come in different colors, they did the same thing for the nail polish so it wouldn't feel left out, you know?"

"Oh," Caroline nods, her dark ringlets framing her face. "So, nail polish is in different colors like you and me is in different colors?"

"Exactly," Brittany smiles, wrapping the little girl up in a hug, "But it still doesn't matter 'cause we're all the same on the inside."

"Blood and guts and other yucky stuff, right, Britts?"

"Yep," the older girl laughs, still hugging her tightly, the contrast between light and dark skin lost on her eyes.

Arthur watches the scene play out before him – his two daughters being, well, daughters and his wife keeping a mindful eye on them as she cooked dinner.

He cherishes the family they've built together – and it hadn't always been an easy road. Unsuccessful early attempts at pregnancy with Mrs. Pierce resulted in a rocky start to their marriage. Then, one day, Maureen – that's his wife – made a joke about him always bringing his work home and it stuck. They adopted Mike, their oldest. They got lucky with Brittany, their little miracle baby they called her. All the statistics and data said she wasn't supposed to be possible, yet, nine months and two days after they'd conceived her, there she was, eyes like her mother, nose like her dad. Lastly, came Caroline; an unexpected edition. She'd been a baby when her birth mother died at the hands of an overly aggressive pimp and he'd been charged with finding her placement. He used to think it would bother him, his family being made rather than created, but in the end, having two adoptive children meant absolutely nothing when you had love.

In fact, they'd discussed taking another into their home just this past summer. Santana Lopez, the problem child he'd been assigned to, was a very difficult nut to crack. And, to be honest, he still hadn't quite figured her out yet. The girl was rude, had an abrasive personality and she had no qualms about inflicting violence upon others who didn't "stay out of her face". But given time, they'd managed a somewhat strenuous if not symbiotic relationship. Arthur was literally the only person she would directly listen to and he…well, he wasn't getting much out of their interactions but she was improving, staying out of trouble and managing to live somewhat harmoniously with the other children in the group homes he'd gotten her into.

Homes is plural.

As in seven different ones in three months, but hey, that's a whole thirty-two less than all of last year so…progress.

It wasn't enough progress to convince his wife that they could handle her under their roof though, which is why they're solid with the three children they have now.

His thoughts are interrupted suddenly by the sound of his cell phone going off – some strange girl singing about the party not stopping jolting him from his reprieve.

He doesn't recognize the number but he answers it anyway. When you work with troubled teens and runaways, you get used to 'unknown' flashing across your caller id.

"Hello?"

"_Mr.__P?_"

Arthur's instantly alarmed. "Santana?"

The girl sniffles across the line, a small sob escaping. "_I__can__'__t__stay__here,__Mr.__P.__The__lady__here_hates_me_."

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you," he soothes, keeping his voice calm.

He can hear some noises in the background. It's reminiscent of an elephant in a kitchen cookware store. "_Is__that__your__social__worker?__Let__him__know__that__I__hate__you__and,__by__extension,__him__for__sending__you__here_," the woman, Sue, yells into the receiver.

"_See?_" Santana says, sniffling once again.

"You hang on, okay, sweetheart," Arthur says, grabbing his keys from the coffee table. "I'll be right there," he utters into the receiver, ending the call just after. "Honey!" he calls out, tossing on a jacket before going to the door.

Maureen pokes her head out from the kitchen. "Where are you going? It's nearly time for dinner."

"I've got to make a run," he tells her, switching shoes. "Oh, and set an extra place."

It's never been this quiet at the dinner table.

Brittany watches the girl sitting across from her poke at her twice baked potato with her fork, frowning.

"Daddy?" Caroline asks, smacking loudly on a mouthful of peas. "Who is her?"

"Chew with your mouth closed, sweetie," Arthur lightly rebukes, smiling warmly. "And we covered this already remember? This is Santana; one of daddy's friends from work."

Caroline looks over at the girl from her place next to Brittany. "She's mean."

Brittany giggles into her plate while her mother reprimands Caroline politely, telling her that Santana's just quiet around new people.

Santana cuts her eyes at Brittany.

"So, here's a spare blanket and pillow," Arthur tells her, standing in the middle of Brittany's bedroom.

Santana takes the items and clutches them to her, hair hanging over her eyes. "Thanks," she mutters, her bare feet digging into the carpet.

"Don't worry about a thing, Santana. We'll find you some place," he says, backing out of the room. "Good night, girls."

"G'nite, Dad," Brittany says, climbing onto her bed. She's already dressed for bed, tank top and shorts on. Santana's still wearing a hoodie and jeans.

"Are you gonna sleep in that?" Brittany cautiously asks.

Tread lightly.

"What's wrong with what I have on?" Santana almost growls back and Brittany shrinks into herself, inching under her bedcovers.

"Nothing," she rushes to say. "Never mind."

She ducks down in her bed, turning away from the strange girl, covers tucked right up underneath her chin.

She's not expecting it when a hand tentatively brushes her shoulder, jerking away as soon as Brittany reacts to it.

"Look," Santana says, her voice not exactly gentle. "I'm sorry. It's weird being here. I've…I've never been in such a nice house before."

Brittany turns over and props her head up on her elbow. "Really?"

Santana looks away from her, watching her toes as she nods.

"That's too bad," Brittany says quietly, following the other girl's line of sight. "Hey, how about I do your toes?"

"What?"

Brittany sits up and digs around in her night stand, pulling out a couple of bottles of polish and a file. "I'm really good," she boasts, swinging her long legs out of bed and plopping down onto the floor.

She pats the space next to her invitingly. "Come on. Lemme."

Santana drops the blanket and pillow to the floor, dropping down to her knees and sitting back on her haunches. "Doing nails is kind of girly, isn't it?"

"Well, I'm a girl," Brittany states absently, the nail polish bottles right up against her nose as she reads the labels in the moonlight.

"So am I," Santana muses, sitting Indian-style now. The old urge rises in her to stir shit, and she's so used to doing it she can't quite help herself. "But I don't really do nail polish." She smirks, facing the blonde girl dead on. Brittany's rather oblivious, still fixated on her bottles. "I like girls."

"Here it is. Passion pink," Brittany grins, reaching for Santana's foot. "You're gonna love it and I think it'll go great with your skin tone."

Santana almost falls onto her back, what with how quickly and unexpectedly Brittany yanks on her foot. "Did you hear me?" she asks, bearing her weight on her hands. "I said I like girls."

"Oh," Brittany breathes, rolling up the hem of Santana's jeans. "Me too."

"No, I mean-"

"I know what you mean," Brittany cuts her off, taking the nail file in hand and then deciding against it. She really doesn't need it. "And I said I do too. I had a girlfriend last year. Her name was Tina. We broke up though." She inspects Santana's pinky toe; the small ring wrapped around it. "You've got pretty toes, Santana."

The dark-haired girl swallows. "Um, thanks."

**November 14, 2011**

It's been a month, roughly, and finding placement for Santana proved to be more difficult than Arthur had initially thought. Not only were foster homes overrun with tenants, but Santana was about to age out of the foster care program in a few more months. Homes were reluctant to take her in only to have to send her right back out.

So, she stayed with them, unofficially.

She's still rough around the edges.

Not really used to being held accountable for her actions, Santana and Mrs. Pierce had butted heads early on about what she could and could not do in their home and tagging Caroline's bedroom wall – in spite of how much the younger girl had loved the mural – was not acceptable.

Now, though, she was acclimating.

Going to school…with Brittany.

Hanging out…with Brittany.

Actually the girl did just about everything…with Brittany.

It made sense because they were the same age but there was something there that Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on…

"Bye Daddy," Brittany says gleefully, leaning up from the backseat and giving him a kiss on the cheek and a neck hug. "C'mon, San."

Santana scoots out behind Brittany, flushing darkly at the look Mr. Pierce is giving her. She thinks he's pretty sure what's up, but, even if Brittany is the most awesome girl she's ever met, Mr. P. would never approve of their relationship.

After all, even Santana thinks she's not good enough to date her. "See ya later, Mr. P."

"Take care, girls!" he calls after them, watching them flounce away.

"Okay, now, how do I look?" Brittany asks her, stopping abruptly to stand in front of the other girl.

Santana rolls her eyes, even as she's biting back a grin. "You look like you always look, Brittany."

"Yeah," Brittany smiles. "But do I look hot enough to hit on Quinn Fabray?"

Santana takes a moment to look at her and, while she's honestly no slouch and she looks at herself in the mirror every day, she can honestly say that she's never seen anything more beautiful. "You look great, Britt."

"Hmmm," Brittany drawls, grinning coyly. "Maybe I should hit on you instead."

Santana freezes, her cheeks growing warm, but before she can respond she's being pulled along again and allows it, more than willing to let Brittany take her wherever she wants to go.

**December 2, 2011**

Another Friday night.

Another date…for Brittany.

Santana's so bummed that even her favorite playmate has opted to go to bed early rather than mope around with her.

"Hey you," Arthur says, joining her in the den. "Whatchu watching?"

Santana shrugs and hits info on the remote, still draped across the flowered loveseat.

"Ooh, a documentary on cheese," he says with faux interest. "Tasty." He laughs. "How come you're not out with Brittany?"

"Brittany's on a date, Mr. P.," Santana mumbles into the couch, words barely discernible, then even quieter. "Her third one this week but whatever."

Arthur catches it though and quirks an eyebrow. "With Quinn?"

Santana sighs deeply but manages to nod.

"I see," Arthur comments, sitting back in his barca lounger. "Well, personally, I think Quinn's a lovely girl but she doesn't quite suit Brittany. In my opinion, of course."

"You don't think so?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Nah. I think Brittany'd work a lot better with a girl like…well, a girl like you."

Santana's head shoots up. "You do?"

"Yep," Arthur states shortly, moving to stand with a groan. "Oh well. Enjoy your cheese documentary."

Santana squints her eyes closed when she hears Brittany's light footsteps coming up the stairs.

The bedroom door swings open and Brittany drops her shoes down in the corner, pulling the door closed behind her.

"San?" she whispers, although still kind of loud.

Santana ignores her, hoping that Brittany will just let it go and go to sleep but she doesn't and soon enough Santana feels the air mattress dip as Brittany settles in behind her.

"San?" Brittany whispers again, nuzzling her neck. She smells like pizza and Mountain Dew and it's not that Santana doesn't necessarily like those smells; it's just that she doesn't really like those smells on a person. "C'mon, San. Wake up."

"What's up, Brittany?" Santana mumbles, keeping her voice low.

"Yay," Brittany whispers enthusiastically, one arm reaching around Santana's waist, her fingers splayed across the girl's abdomen. "I knew you weren't sleep, sleep. When you're sleep-sleeping I can never get you up. Even with the promise of Mom's blueberry pancakes."

"Brittany," Santana whines, turning onto her back. "You woke me up for this?"

"No," Brittany breathes, and Santana can feel the tension suddenly spike through the other girl's body. Her hand clenches slightly, clutching at Santana's sleep shirt and her breathing picks up just slightly. "I think Quinn and I broke up."

Santana's wide awake.

"What?"

"She told me that we weren't compactable or something and at first I thought she was talking about cars but she said that it means we aren't right for one another," Brittany explains, trailing off with a sigh. "I think she likes Rachel Berry."

"Blegh," Santana says, scrunching her face up. "Talk about a downgrade."

"I dunno," Brittany muses, her fingers tracing wisps of dark hair out of Santana's face. "She's kind of pretty."

"Rachel's okay," Santana admits, feeling her throat tighten the more Brittany keeps touching her. "But you're _really_ pretty, Britt. Quinn's kinda dumb."

"Don't say that," Brittany chastises, swatting at Santana playfully. "She's a nice girl. She's just not for me."

"Not for you," Santana speaks over her at the same time. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

"You wanna know what else?" Brittany asks. She's on her stomach now, elbows digging into the mattress, her eyes shining as they look down at the other girl.

Santana doesn't wait for her to say it – she doesn't need to – and Brittany's laugh gets trapped in her throat when she leans up to kiss her.


	29. Five Rounds

**Disclaimer:**Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author****'****s****Note:**So, I've been in full flail mode since about 2AM Thursday morning. *shrugs* Whatever. That's part of being a Gleek (note: Microsoft word thinks that not capitalizing the word Gleek is not grammatically correct, lol). Four more days. Anyway, here's a new one. I'm working on five others…slowly. Thanks for reading, reviewing, and in other words sticking this out with me and thanks to my beta and faux-beta.

* * *

><p><strong>**Round One**<strong>

"So Buddy, still got that forty-eight inch flat screen TV over there?"

Santana looks across the room to verify before answering cautiously. "I might."

She's talking to Tina – her ex-roommate from college and probably best friend (sometimes that title goes to Mercedes). Tina's crazy in the least unlikable way, meaning that any plan involving the woman usually resulted in near-catastrophic consequence.

It's always best to tread lightly.

"I'm not going to blow it up or anything. Jeez, what kind of woman do you think I am?"

"The kind of woman who blew up my Tercel."

"That was an accident," Tina says.

"You threw a lit match into the gas tank,"

"To prove a point."

"What point? That gas is flammable?"

"No, that people should drive electric cars," Tina deadpans. "Anyway, I don't know why you're still dwelling on that. I got you a new car, didn't I?"

Santana just shakes her head, not believing she's having such an insane conversation. "What do you want?"

"There's a match Saturday night and I want to watch it up close and in HD."

"A match?"

"Boxing? Hello? Am I speaking a different language?"

"Is bitch a language?"

"Santana, can you just say yes? You're gonna say yes anyway. You're worse than my mom with this."

"Three questions: is it just going to be you?"

"Me and my ganja."

"So, you're _not_ planning on bringing that slobbery mutt with you?"

Tina gasps. "You're so mean. Rocky loves you."

"He loves humping my leg."

"Same thing."

"No dog."

"Fine," Tina says, huffing. "No dog. Anything else, Your Majesty?"

"Bring food?"

"I'll cook you something when I come."

Santana grins brightly. "Deal."

***o*O*o***

Santana pulls open the door only to find the face of a beaming Tina. "_Hey_ Pumpkin."

Santana's not impressed.

"Oh, come on, don't make that face. Let me in," Tina says, trying to push past her but Santana stands firm.

Grumbling Tina holds up the bag of take-out, forcing into Santana's chest. "You're such a Nazi."

"And you really needed to pay attention in world history," Santana smirks, taking the bag off Tina and letting her pass, "Because that makes no sense."

"It does to me and that's all that matters," Tina informs her, striding straight to the living room where she promptly hugs the television. "Ah, five hundred and seventy-six centimeters of visual perfection."

"So to compensate for your dog not being here to sexually assault me, you're groping my television set," Santana comments, opening the brown paper bag and smiling at its contents. Sushi. Tina knows her well.

"Just eat your raw fish and leave me the hell alone," Tina cracks, making herself comfortable on the couch.

"Whatever. Just keep it down. I've got to finish grading these papers."

_Thirty minutes later…_

Santana's red pen skips over the page again as a loud "Whoop!" echoes throughout her apartment.

She doesn't know why she thought that maybe this time Tina would respect her wishes and just do what the hell Santana says for once.

"Tina!"

"Sorry." A beat. "Lopez, get in here and see this! This shit is epic!"

Reluctantly, Santana pushes away from her desk – although, honestly, she could use a break; there's only so much broken English essays about the founding fathers that one person can take – and meanders down the hall until she's in the living room.

Or what used to be considered a living room.

For the time being, Tina's converted it into death match 2011.

"Tina, what the-"

"Sweet, you're here," Tina cuts her off, wrapping her fingers around Santana's wrist and yanking her down onto the floor to join her. "So, I don't really know their names because I just decided I liked boxing last week, but the tall blonde and the short blonde are kicking each other's ass, but I think the short one is winning because she gets like double points for being such a midget."

"Wait," Santana says, watching the two figures dance across the screen. "These are women."

Tina smirks, "Yep."

"That is so…."

Tina looks at her, watching with amused eyes as she struggles to come up with a word, but then finally…

"…_stupid_."

"What?" Tina balks. "What's the matter with you? Girl fighting is hot as hell."

"First of all, I thought I was the gay one. And secondly, I get why men are drawn to boxing, what with their reliance on overt male dominance displays and so forth. So guys willing to knock each other's brains out don't surprise me. But women are referred to as the gentler sex for a reason. Why on earth would they go around maiming one another?"

Tina stares at her. "'Cause it's hot."

****Round Two****

There's a man in line ahead of them, talking extensively about last night's fight with the clerk and Santana's torn between coughing loudly or, you know, goosing him once.

Tina wanders over, opening up a yet to be paid for Slim Jim. "What's taking so long?"

"Landing-strip head won't stop blabbing about the fight," she says and not too quietly either.

Tina gasps, quickly tapping the man on the shoulder. "You guys talking about the Motta-Fabray fight?"

The guy with the mohawk turns, eyes lighting up as he glances at first Tina and then Santana. "Right you are, lil' lady," he croons, licking his lips, "Are you a fan?"

"Are you kidding me? That fight was awesome. Fabray had her on the ropes," Tina comments, using her fists to help her recount, "Motta was hurting, rocking, then next thing you know she comes at Fabray fast and furious with the combinations until…_lights __out_."

The man chuckles, looking on as Tina raises her arms in mock victory. "You _are_ a fan," he says, fully turning around and leaning against the checkout counter. His gaze settles on Santana once again. "What about you?"

"Puh-lease," Santana dismisses, frowning at him and his less than covert bedroom eyes, "Boxing is barbaric."

"I don't know about that," he says, shrugging his shoulders, "There's a certain artistic value to it."

Santana scoffs. "There is nothing artistic about ramming your fist into someone's face."

The guy barks out a laugh. "Jeez," he chuckles, looking to Tina, "Your friend's kind of a tough nut to crack."

"You have no idea," Tina agrees, smirking in Santana's direction.

"Look," he says, reaching into his back pocket, "I sort of pride myself on getting people interested in my sport because, well, boxing is not as archaic as you think it is and, b, since I am a promoter, it's good for business. So, here's my card."

Santana waves off the little tile of cardboard but Tina takes it, tucking it safely away in her wallet.

The man collects his items from the counter. "Give me a call sometime," he says on his way out.

***o*O*o***

"_So guess what?"_

"Don't have time for the guessing game, Tina."

"_Are__you__having__sex__ – __wait,__are__you__having__sex__with__another_person_?__"_

Santana narrows her eyes. "You're an ass," she grumbles, ignoring Tina's cackles on the line. "A dumb ass."

"_A__dumb__ass__that__'__s__scored__tickets__to_the biggest fight of the year_or__the__biggest__fight__until__the__next__big__fight.__"_

"Sense. Start making some."

"_Right, so, remember that hottie from the mini-mart? Oh, wait. Yeah, my kind of hottie from the mini-mart? The one who was all into you even though you clearly ping harder than Kate Moennig and Sam Ronson at Lilith Fair?"_

Santana's face scrunches up, trying to remember, "The dude with the mohawk?"

"_That's the one. He got me two tickets to that big fight between Brittany 'The Unicorn' Pierce and Quinn 'Serial K' Fabray."_

"I still fail to see where this has anything to do with me. I mean, I guess I'm happy for you-"

"_You're coming with, duh."_

"No I'm not."

"_Yes you are."_

"Uh, no, I'm not. I don't even like boxing."

"_Well, I need someone to go with me in case Hottie McHottson turns out to be a date rapist or something. Free tickets do not equal a Cohen-Chang bang."_

Santana doesn't even have words for that. "I…I don't even know how we're still friends."

"_Because I'm awesome and I scored you your first snatch, remember? God, how soon we forget. Meet you up there in a few hours. Smooches."_

****Round Three****

She calls Tina back to get the directions – although, in all honesty, she could have let it go because then she wouldn't be forced to actually _go_ to this thing. In reality though, she'll probably enjoy the night out, even if it does involve half naked women acting rather unintelligently.

"_Damn_, girl," Tina says, catching up to her in the crowded parking lot, "You look muy caliente. I forget how good you clean up. They might pick you for one of the card girls."

Santana's tight smile drops from her lips, "Excuse me?"

"Card girl? You know the hot chick that prances across the stage with the round card? You could totally pull that off," Tina explains, walking them to the entrance of the arena where slews of people are trickling in.

"Tina," Santana hisses, yanking on her arm, "I am not getting into the _ring_, are you crazy?"

"Nope," Tina almost yells back, still marching onward, "Now, keep your eyes peeled for mohawk-guy."

"Actually, the name is Puck," a familiar voice to their left says and sure enough, there mohawk guy is, grinning smarmily and dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit. "Didn't think you ladies were actually going to show," he says, maneuvering them through the crowd to ringside, near the announcers, "Well, I kind of figured you would, Tina, but your friend here…"

"Can hear you and has a name," Santana interrupts, crossing her arms over her chest. The Puck dude is leering.

"I know babe," Puck grins, draping an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm not your babe," Santana grumbles, shrugging out of his embrace.

"Okay," Puck drags out, finally reaching their seats, "Why don't I just give you lovely ladies a moment to relax while I go check on my fighter?"

Before Tina or Santana can respond he's gone and Tina frowns at her friend. "You could be a little less hostile, you know?"

"Yeah well," Santana starts, rolling her eyes as she takes a seat, "Your _friend_ should learn to take a hint."

"He's just being polite."

"Sure he is," Santana smirks, "To my chest."

Tina shrugs. "You do have an impressive rack," she murmurs.

Santana's eyes widen, "What did you just say?"

"When do you think he's coming back?" Tina says, grinning wryly. "These are awesome seats. We're gonna be able to see everything. We might even get bled on."

"Who _are_ you?"

***o*O*o***

So, Santana still doesn't get fighting.

In fact, up close and personal like this, she's kind of afraid.

The tall blonde – Puck's fighter, Brittany – raises her arms in triumph as her opponent falls to the mat again, sweat splashing off the canvas and onto the front rows of the audience.

Of course, Santana can barely see any of this because she's peeking through her fingers.

There's a cut above Brittany's right eye that's steadily trickling blood and, seriously? Why would anybody subject themselves to this?

"Oh my God," Santana gasps, squirming uneasily. The other woman rises up off the ground before the count of ten so the fight continues. "When is this gonna be over?"

"Hopefully in the next two rounds," Puck says, eyes glued to the ring with interest. "If Britt KO's her before then we get a bonus."

"This is so cool," Tina murmurs, enthralled. "Isn't this cool, Santana?"

Santana swallows. "Riveting." She sits up a little straighter in her chair, willing herself to pay attention, "I do have one question, though."

"What's that?" Puck asks, his body twitching along with every one of Brittany's punches.

"How come Brittany keeps letting that other lady hit her over her right eye? Like, all she has to do is kinda swerve to avoid it and every time she gets hit it slows her down."

Puck watches closely and, sure enough, every time Brittany throws a left jab she's opens herself up for some major punishment. In fact, if she's not careful it could cost her the fight. "Well, I'll be," Puck mutters, just as the bell sounds signaling the end of another round. "You ladies sit tight for a minute."

Santana and Tina look on as Puck works his way to the ringside, right to Brittany's corner. He says something to the coach and Brittany, both of them nodding along and before long he's rushing back over to the girls, tucking his tie back into his suit as he sits down.

"What was that about?" Santana asks, intrigued.

"I told her what you said," Puck answers as the bell sounds again. He grabs a shot glass off of one of the mysteriously floating and always full trays, holding it up in a mock toast and shooting her a wink. "Here's hoping you know what you're talking about 'cause Pierce hates losing fights."

***o*O*o***

"Yo' Pierce, helluva fight!" Puck shouts over the ruckus in the locker room. It smells like gym socks and salami but everyone looks exuberant in spite of that.

Brittany's sitting on a bench in the middle of it all, legs kicking back and forth as trainers get to work "uncovering" her.

"Thanks Puck," Brittany manages to muffle out in spite of the mouth guard, her gloves still being cut off, "And thanks for the tip."

"Wasn't me," Puck insists, semi-pushing Santana forward, "All props should be given to this beautiful woman."

Santana flushes as the fighter, clad only in rainbow boxing trunks and a glittery sports bra, looks her over with a smirk – or something like it; that mouth guard distorts things.

The trainers finally get her hands free and Brittany spits the mouth guard into a bucket. "Is that so?" she asks, grinning slightly, "And who are you? Puck's date?"

"God no," Santana says, putting even more distance between her and the guy, "I am a reluctant third party to this excursion."

"Santana doesn't really like boxing," Puck adds, smirking.

Brittany raises an eyebrow.

"Nothing against you or anything," Santana rushes to say, not wanting to be rude, "I just don't get the point in hurting yourself on purpose."

Brittany smiles fully now, sliding off the table. "Well the goal is _not_ to hurt yourself," she says with a bright laugh, "But thanks for the pointers. Actually, since you're not Puck's date, maybe you'd like to give me some more boxing advice."

Something about the way she says that – and the fact that good God Brittany is fucking gorgeous – makes Santana think she's not exactly fishing for boxing tips.

Santana grins, albeit a little shyly. "Sure."

****Round Four****

But then again, she could be wrong.

"But really, my favorite is the speed bag," Brittany enthuses, already going to work on the thing.

It's impressive, if you're into that sort of thing, but the thing is – Santana's not. Although she can't really deny the fact that Brittany can work her hands that rapidly is very much a turn on.

Not to mention the guns.

_Jesus_.

One final punch and Brittany lets up, breathing a little harder than she was just a minute ago. "Okay, so that's everything," she grins, turning to face Santana straight on, "Now it's your turn."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, how about it?" Brittany pries, tilting her head cutely, "You'd look hot in a helmet. I mean, not that you don't look hot now."

Santana stammers but before she can respond Brittany's taped hands are on her hips, guiding her to the heavy bag.

"Are you kidding with this?" Santana asks, looking on as Brittany grabs some gloves for her to put on.

"No. I never kid about boxing," Brittany says seriously, her hands reaching for Santana's. "Gimme," she says, grip firm yet gentle as she secures the gloves with a swiftly tied knot.

"Okay," Brittany grins, moving to stand beside her, "Take a swing but not-"

Santana misses the last of the instruction because she punches the bag hard and it…punches back.

The brunette lets out a grunt, the heavy bag smacking against her hard and knocking her back several steps.

"….yeah," Brittany says, biting back a smile, "So, like I was saying, don't swing until I get behind the bag to secure it."

Not to be shown up by an inanimate object and spurred on by the amusement she sees clearly in Brittany's eyes Santana proceeds to get down to business, punch after punch landing squarely on the vinyl covered bag.

It's a little…fun.

"Don't lie," Brittany laughs, hanging onto the back of the bag, "You're enjoying it."

Santana grunts, connecting with the bag again before wiping her brow with her forearm. "It's okay."

Brittany smirks. "Wanna go a few rounds with me?"

Santana's eyebrows rise, stilling her fists momentarily, "You're on."

Hopefully Brittany's not being literal this time.

****Round Five****

"Come at me," the blonde manages to mumble around her mouthpiece.

Santana looks down at her gloved hands awkwardly before looking across the way to the fighter, "You can't be serious."

Brittany, wearing a boxing helmet, smiles and all Santana can see is blue mouth guard. Brittany uses her tongue to push it out a little, making it easier to speak, "Sure I am. I wanna see what you got."

Santana smiles a little, shaking her head slowly, "I've never thrown a single punch in my life. I might break something."

"I'll take it easy on ya'," Brittany assures her, holding up her padded hands, "Now, swing."

Santana takes a calming breath before bringing her hands up, fists curling inside the Everlast gloves she's wearing.

"So I just…?" she starts, pushing out her left hand and Brittany – on reflex, slaps it away.

Santana stares at her, incredulous.

"Sorry," Brittany murmurs, shrugging aloofly, "Reflexes."

The brunette's eyes narrow slightly, not entirely sure of the sincerity of that particular apology. "Uh huh."

Brittany slaps the pads together, "Okay. C'mon."

Santana plays along, darting her fist out and connecting soundly with Brittany's right pad, actually forcing the blonde back a step.

She raises an eyebrow.

"Nice," Brittany grins, matching her smirk, "What else?"

Acting purely on instinct, Santana keeps jabbing away at Brittany's right fist with her left hand, punches getting harder and harder the more she connects.

She's focused on the glove, but every other punch she brings her eyes up to the other woman's, the blue orbs shining with excitement. Brittany's watching her more than she's paying attention to the punches, the grin on her face growing every time they make contact.

"You're not bad," Brittany murmurs.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmm hmm. With a little technique, you'd make a pretty good fighter. I didn't think you'd be this good."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's kinda…hot."

Santana grins, deciding to play with Brittany a little bit and switches things up, punching her right glove hard with her left before coming around with the right, expecting Brittany's hand to be there.

…

It's not.

POW!

"Ohmigod," Santana mumbles, gloved hands instinctively shooting out to grab the other woman by the shoulders. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were gonna block it."

Brittany rubs her cheek with the padded glove, surprised at the sting. "You hit me…" she says, sounding kind of dazed, "You hit me in the face."

"I didn't mean to," Santana squeaks, her eyes wide with worry, "Please don't kill me."

Brittany keeps rubbing, the clouds slowly receding. "You hit me in the face," she repeats, a smile slowly taking form. "You…" she laughs, "_You_ hit me in the face."

Suddenly Brittany's shoulders start bouncing as she starts giggling uncontrollably, her eyes crinkling around the edges with mirth.

Santana, for her part, is freaking out.

She's never hit anyone before and she's never been hit before, but, if she's not mistaken, it's normally not taken as a good sign if the person experiencing head trauma just starts laughing unexpectedly.

"Oh, dear Lord, I broke your brain," she whispers, reaching up to cradle the blonde's face in her two, still-gloved, hands.

Brittany blinks, looking deeply into her eyes but then she's brushing off Santana's grip.

"Try that again," she says, rotating her shoulders and bouncing on her heels a little.

Santana steadies herself and tries the same combination only this time, Brittany's ready, shifting sideways and Santana loses her footing, momentum carrying her forward and down.

But before she can fall, Brittany's strong arm catches her by the waist, righting her with a firm grip and soft smile.

"You're okay," she whispers, face a breath away from Santana's.

"You're…sweaty," Santana manages, her heart rate picking up as Brittany unexpectedly leans in.

It's like the best first kiss Santana's ever had and Brittany smiles against her lips when she lets out a little whimper.

"You know what?" Brittany says suddenly, pulling away from Santana's lips with a soft smack, "We've worked up quite a sweat, huh? Maybe we should hit the showers?"

"Yes please," Santana says, ripping the gloves off of her hands.

Brittany takes her by the hand, giggling a little as she pulls her along.

"Wait a minute," Santana says, slowing to a stop, "We _are_ talking about sex this time, right?"


	30. This Christmas

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author****'****s****Note:** Sorry. I'm sorry. Blame my absence on _Glee_ and its uncanny ability to put me in a writing funk. And also, when feedback is scarce, apparently my inspiration level drops – something that was pointed out to me by one of my regular readers. So, I'll try to be better at it but I make no promises. A special thanks to my beta for looking this over for me. Have a happy and safe holiday you guys and, as always, thanks for reading.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Caroling<strong>_

Her mother has told her time and time again that it's rude to stare.

But it's not really staring if you're just looking intently and wondering how someone so remarkably beautiful manages to exist.

Then it's just like being capitated or something.

As she stands there sipping her peppermint hot chocolate, listening and smiling as the carolers serenade them – her and her family – with a riveting rendition of _Angels__We__Have__Heard__On__High_, she feels her body sway and bounce, moved in more ways than she can count by the pretty voices.

It's snowing lightly and the Christmas lights adorning her house glint and reflect off the tiny pieces of ice, making it shine light flecks of gold.

It's a gorgeous scene, but, still all of it pales in comparison to the one girl, standing near the rear. She actually looks like there's no place she'd rather be than inside the home she's belting in front of. Her entire body is trembling and even though the notes ring true and clear from her mouth, Brittany bites back a grin when she sees that the girl's teeth are chattering.

The song's rapidly coming to a close and Brittany pouts, tilting her head slightly and in that moment, her eyes finally meet those of the other girl and when _that_ happens Brittany immediately breaks out into a grin.

"Hi," she mouths.

The girl's eyes widen and she looks around herself for a moment before looking back to Brittany. She points a finger at herself in question, still singing.

Brittany nods, still grinning.

The girl looks shy for a moment, but she straightens up shortly thereafter, breaking from the lyrics momentarily to mouth 'hi' back.

Brittany feels warmer than she does when her calendar's upside down and she wears her winter coat on Independence Day.

Although, that wouldn't happen if Lord Tubbington would just stay out of her stuff.

The song ends and she applauds along with her parents, unmistakably pleased and just like that the carolers turn to go, shuffling quietly along to the next house.

Brittany pouts remarkably but bucks up when the girl in the back turns a little and waves her fingers, mouthing 'bye'.

Then…Brittany gets a wonderful idea.

And fantastic idea.

Brittany gets a wonderfully fantastic idea.

She nearly runs over her mother as she darts back into their house, her fingers gripping tightly against the mug in her hand and for once she's not concerned about the warmth.

She raids the cupboards until she finds what she's looking for and it only takes a couple of more minutes before she's out of the kitchen and throwing on her winter coat – she actually almost grabs her rain coat because of the calendar thing but fool her once, shame on her, fool her twice, shame on George Bush or something like that…

The tassels of her winter hat bounce against her shoulders as she jumps down her porch steps, two at a time, boot-covered feet guiding her true and luckily enough, the carolers haven't made it very far – just two doors down with the Abrams and Cohen-Changs being out of town – and their singing _Silent__Night_ this time.

She cranes her neck to find the mystery girl but she doesn't see her, at least, not right away and not until the second verse, but when she does…

Mystery girl has a solo on the second verse and Brittany's thunderstruck when the group splits into a kind of open circle formation, the girl standing dead center.

Her voice is heavenly and smooth, like melted milk chocolate and just as rich, and it carries – _gosh_, does it carry – way on until the night, until Brittany's absolutely certain that everyone in the world, if they listened hard enough, would be able to hear it.

She waits patiently until she finishes, until they finish, and she waits for the applause, a little bummed that she can't clap as well but then she'd drop her gift and really that's the whole point.

The carolers start their slow march to the next house and Brittany gathers up enough courage to make her move.

"Hey," she says, her mitten-covered hands catching a retreating elbow.

The first look on mystery girl's face is definitely annoyance – Brittany sees that one all the time on Lord Tubbington – but it melts quickly, replaced by something akin to intrigue.

Brittany surges on.

"Okay, so, I noticed when you were singing at my house – you're really good by the way – that you looked a little cold. Like, really cold. And I thought I'd bring you this," she says, holding up the travel thermos, still shyly watching the concrete. "It's just some peppermint hot chocolate and I thought you could use it to keep you warm because I once saw this thing on the Discovery channel or maybe it was _Ice__Age_ where this guy lost his nose or his pinky toe or something because of hippo-thermia and it would suck if you lost your nose because it's really cute. Or, I guess your pinky toe. But, I don't know how much use a pinky toe really is. Like, do we need them?"

She actually scrunches up her face in thought, mulling the question over, only stopping when she hears the slightest giggle scrape across her eardrums.

"Thank you," the girl says with a smile, gladly accepting the mug. Her voice lilts at the end, a question almost and Brittany catches on right away.

"Brittany," she says, then, "And, it's cool. You can get it back to me, you know, whenever you're done."

"Or…" the girl starts, eyes sparkling like magic, "you could come with us. Keep me company?"

She trails off, one eyebrow raised in question and Brittany feels her cheeks warm at the cuteness of it all.

"On one condition," Brittany states, suddenly sounding formal.

"I'm listening," the girl says, taking a sip from the mug.

"You have to tell me your name because I am tired of referring to you as mystery girl in my head. I don't even think I'm spelling it right," she says wryly and the girl just laughs, nearly choking on the drink in the process.

"It's Santana," she finally manages, in between the giggles, "and you are incredibly funny."

"It's a gift," Brittany shrugs, her eyes shining with amusement.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ice Skating<strong>_

"I swear to God or Yahweh or whoever you pray to these days, if you let me fall in the middle of all these people your first born will know every curse word in the Spanish language before the word 'Mama' even takes root in its mind."

How she ever lets Rachel talk her into these things is mind-boggling.

You'd think after years of asinine suggested activities like synchronized swimming and – repeat this and _die_ – square dancing, she'd realize it's best to avoid any and all Berry suggested past times.

But, lo and behold, when her old high school crush turned buddy – the crush aspect is dead and gone because of a tragic admittance that Rachel actually _liked_ Macaulay Culkin look-alikes with bass-like facial features – called her up and guilted her (she's good at that 'cause she's Jewish) into a Christmas expedition she agreed on two conditions.

One: she gets fed, because nobody gets her to move without the promise of food.

And two: Rachel doesn't try to kill her, inadvertently or otherwise, the square-dancing fiasco still fresh in her mind.

Note of caution: Keep Rachel Berry and spurred boots far, far apart.

When Rachel readily agreed to those conditions, she thought she was set.

Cat in the bag.

And all those other euphemisms that mean no drama on the horizon.

But then, Rachel showed up at her door with a pair of ice skates dangling from her fingers and a smile wider than Trouty Mouth's himself – an impressive feat – and Santana had to force herself not to slam the door.

Actually, she sort of did, but Rachel's tiny as hell and apparently quick as a cheetah or something because she managed to squeeze in before Santana could close it.

Needless to say, she lost whatever battle she was trying to win because she is standing here, in the cold, wobbling on the most ridiculous invention known to man.

Ice is slippery, no?

So why would anyone think to one's self, 'Self, I think I shall make shoes with razor blades for soles to move across this slippery ass ice.'

Dumb fucks, that's who.

And ice skating?

Masochists.

Simple and pure.

Sinister people who get their kicks watching unsuspecting individuals wobble comically before falling on their asses over and over and over.

"Santana, you're cutting off circulation in my arm."

"If you let me go…"

"You'll fall and pout and complain and whine and then beg Sam and I to carry you back home. You're so completely not threatening out here," Rachel teases, picking up speed. "I could just abandon you in the middle of the rink."

Santana's eyes widen. "Don't even _think_ about it."

"Why?" Rachel grins. "You clearly don't have the wherewithal to come after me. At least, not until you figure out how to get all the way to the end of the rink on those, and I quote, 'blades of sore-y'."

With that, Rachel promptly lets go, immediately creating a foot or two of distance between them before Santana can even think of reaching for her again.

"Rachel," Santana hisses, instantly panicked.

"Relax," Rachel says, rolling her eyes. "I'll be back. I just have to use the ladies' facilities. It would've taken forever to skate you over there. Plus, I doubt you'd come back out here with me again."

Santana makes to roll her eyes at her, but her right foot wobbles comically and she realizes, again, that she must stay ever vigilant with these ridiculous skates on.

Rachel skates away smoothly, weaving her way between bodies with ease and Santana focuses all her energy on remaining upright.

She's doing a fairly good job, too.

"Alright Santana," she says quietly, cheering herself on. "Just keep on doing this and you're golden."

And she would've been had it not been for this nick in the surface of the ice.

Her left skate gets caught in it and it sets of this weird chain reaction in her body where her leg then turns to jell-o, swerving in and out, making her flail about for balance.

Her arms shoot out and she claws at the air trying to right her center of gravity and both feet slide over and over against the ice and just when she thinks she's okay…BAM!

Ice is _hard_.

That's the first thought that comes to mind, then…

"Ow," she groans, wincing dramatically. "I hurt my ass."

She doesn't even bother to get up, opting to instead lay flat on the ice and if someone decides to decapitate her with their death shoes then so be it. Rachel deserves the guilt for abandoning her helpless ass on this rink anyway.

She hears someone giggle a little bit, and her eyes, which she had scrunched closed in an attempt to focus on something other than her sore butt, pop open, watching as a pair of skates get dangerously close to her face.

She follows the skates, up a pair of denim-clad legs and a puffy pink coat until she sees a girl with blue eyes leaning over her, a light smile adorning her features.

She's pretty.

"Are you okay?" the girl asks kindly, the sun framing her head magnificently.

"I think I broke my ass," is all Santana can think to say and that just sets the girl off, her easy laughter floating along the crisp air.

"I don't think that's possible," she says, very seriously. "But, I could check for you. I'm good at spotting broken stuff. Like when I broke my pinky finger and I knew it because it bent the wrong way all the time. It didn't hurt though."

"You want to check out my ass?" Santana asks her, sitting up now. She plants her finger glove-covered hands on the ice on either side of herself but changes her mind shortly after.

Ice is also cold it turns out.

The girl grins. "I was only gonna look it over for you. But I guess I could check it out too."

Santana chuckles, charmed. "Can you…" she starts, stretching her arms up and the girl takes the cue, wrapping her non-covered fingers around Santana's wrists and pulling her up, gracefully maintaining her balance in the process.

Santana still feels uneasy, and the tingeing pain in her backside hasn't yet subsided, but she manages to not flail about like an idiot this time.

Although that might be because the girl hasn't let her go yet.

She actually kind of panics when the girl moves away before she's ready, smooth in her motions as she swings out, only holding onto Santana with one hand.

"You're okay," she murmurs quietly and somehow Santana hears it over the din of all the other skaters.

"I'm…okay," she repeats, slow in her movements as she finds herself skating alongside this mysterious girl.

Which, speaking of…

"Hey," she says sharply, still clutching onto the girl's arm. "Can I ask you your name?"

The girl grins. "You can."

Santana rolls her eyes, even as s smile worms its way across her face. "_May_ I ask you your name?" she corrects.

"Brittany," the girl answers with a shrug.

"Well, Brittany," Santana says, feeling more at ease. "My name's Santana."

"Santana," Brittany tries out, face tilting toward the sun. "That's a pretty name."

Santana smirks. "I'm a pretty girl."

"And so modest, too," Brittany teases, swinging their arms. They're still not holding hands and it's kind of weird how their gripping one another's wrist.

"Pretty much," Santana says, untangling her hand and sliding it down, her fingers catching against the blonde's. She keeps her eyes on Brittany's face to gauge her reaction but Brittany just stares straight ahead, a small smile on her face. "So, Brittany…how's your broken pinky now?"

"Oh, it's fine," Brittany says, her grin growing. She staves off Santana's hand until at last their pinkies catch, wrapping around one another tightly. "Super strong."

When Rachel tracks her down ten minutes later, Santana's with Brittany, laughing and talking as they whip around the rink and Santana's never meant anything in her life more than when she tells the hobbit to 'get lost'.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Trapped in a Train Car<strong>_

Brittany's one of those fortunate – or unfortunate people – that always sees the glass half full.

It's fortunate because she can take almost any situation and put that bright-side spin on it.

For example, there was that bank robbery that one time…

"_Get on the floor!"_

_Brittany and Mike drop down and cover the arms over their heads._

"_Holy crap, we're gonna die," Mike whimpers to which Brittany replies:_

"_Oooh, sweet. I found a quarter."_

So, yeah, Brittany's been known to make the best out of a bad situation.

But, it also can be unfortunate at times.

Times like right now.

Times when the woman sitting before her looks downright murderous.

You see, it all started with Brittany finishing up the closing shift at the Macy's downtown.

Of course, the only reason she was closing at all was because no one wanted to work Christmas Eve except Brittany because she thought it would be the perfect opportunity to spread some Holiday cheer.

And there's that glass half full thing again.

Anyway, it's late and everything's closed so downtown Chicago is kind of deserted which is weird because it's _downtown__Chicago_ but, alas, Christmas Eve so Brittany gets it.

Wrapping her scarf around her face, she clamors down the stairs to the 'L' train, using her pass to maneuver through the turnstiles and soon enough she's settling into a seat on the train car heading south to her apartment.

As the rain rattles along the track, she pulls up her Christmas playlist and shuffles the songs, relaxing back against her seat and allowing the sway of the train car to lull her into a peaceful state.

She'll make good time at the rate the train is traveling which is a good thing because she knows Lord Tubbington is waiting for her to get home so that they can watch _A__Very__Garfield__Christmas_ – it's one of his favorites.

It's a few stops later before anyone gets onto her car and Brittany hardly pays attention, too relaxed to do so really, but then the frazzled woman takes a seat directly across from her and suddenly attention is all she can pay.

She's gorgeous.

Like, supermodel gorgeous.

Like, Brittany almost – _almost_ – takes out her copy of _Vogue_just to see because, wow.

Too bad the woman's paying close to no attention to her.

She's more into her phone, fingers rapidly texting out message after message, although, the furious manner in which she's pressing against the touch screen leads Brittany to believe that whoever she's conversing with is not exchanging pleasantries and then…

Nothing.

Literally.

The train crawls to a stop and the cargoes completely dark for a second before the emergency lights are on, illuminating the space in a fluorescent yellow glow.

"What's happening?" the woman asks her, almost accusingly, and Brittany's so taken aback that the words get caught up in the back of her throat and she manages what sounds like a low Lord Tubbington mewl before the train's speakers crackle to life.

"Attention CTA passengers. We are experiencing a problem with the power. Please remain in your cars. We will be traveling again shortly."

Brittany sighs in relief.

The woman growls.

"Great," she mutters, pressing the palm of her hand against her head. "Just great."

For some reason, Brittany doesn't think she's being genuine.

"Don't worry," Brittany says, shrinking back when the woman sends a withering glare in her direction.

Brittany smiles, holding up her hands. "I come in peace," she adds, hoping that a little levity might break the other woman's apparently icy demeanor.

It doesn't.

"Why are you talking to me?"

Brittany shrugs. "Why not?"

"Because I'm a stranger."

"So?"

"Didn't your parents teach you to never speak to strangers?"

Brittany frowns a little because this is not going as smoothly as she hoped it would, but then she brightens, realizing something.

"Didn't yours?"

"What?"

"Well, you are talking to me aren't you?"

The woman's eyes widen, trumped. "Touché."

"So…I'm going to tell you my name and then you can tell me yours and then we won't be strangers anymore and then you and I can talk freely like you really want to because you secretly deep down think I'm awesome."

The woman scoffs. "I do not."

"Yeah you do. Everybody does because I can dance really good and I'm really nice and I make the best grilled cheese sandwiches ever."

"How…." The woman shakes her head. "How would I even know those things?"

"You wouldn't. Not unless I told you. Which I just did. And now that you _do_ know," Brittany says, standing and placing her hands on her hips, "How awesome is Brittany S. Pierce?"

The woman snorts, amused. "Brittany S. Pierce is definitely something."

Brittany sits back down, still smiling and she watches as the woman's exterior almost visibly cracks open.

"My name is Santana Lopez and I'm sorry if I was such a bitch before, it's just…I have this horrible track record with Christmas and this incident is just really the icing on the fucking cake," the woman says, running a hand casually through her dark hair.

"Did you…want to talk about it?" Brittany hedges.

"It's a long story, Brittany."

Brittany grins as she kicks her feet up onto the spare seat next to her. "I've got time."

***o*O*o***

"I spy something…yellow."

"The emergency lights," Santana says, boredom coloring her features.

"Yes," Brittany laughs looking around for something else. Her eyes spark when she finds it.

"I spy something red."

"The fire extinguisher," Santana murmurs, this time with a slight smile.

Brittany sucks so badly at this game.

"Right. Man, you're really good at this," Brittany muses, her tone playful.

"Well, you keep looking directly at whatever it is you're 'spying'," Santana finger-quotes. "It's not like you're making it that hard."

"Okay, okay," Brittany waves her hands, sitting up a little further in her seat. "I've got a good one this time."

Santana lifts her chin out of her hand and fixes her eyes on Brittany. "Shoot."

"I spy…" she starts, grin on her face, "something really, _really_, pretty."

Santana blushes.

***o*O*o***

"It's my turn to pick something," Santana says, shrugging out of her blazer.

Brittany nods, allowing it. "But it has to be fun. No more pouting about former girlfriends or non-understanding parents. Especially the former girlfriends," she adds darkly and Santana laughs loudly.

"You didn't like that at all, did you?"

"People who break up with you are stupid and I hate using that word so it must really be true."

Santana's smile fades into something softer, kinder. "That's kind of sweet."

"Well," Brittany smiles, looking away shyly, "so are you."

***o*O*o***

So, they found another way to pass the time.

Public sex is _so_ awesome.

Santana is really good at it too, her fingers curling ever so slightly as she works them in and out of Brittany.

She's got Brittany pressed against one of the side panels – the ones flanked on either side of the exit doors – and she's got her mouth on Brittany's neck, one hand palming a breast, the other working up a fury in between Brittany's legs.

Brittany hangs on with all she's got and usually she can last a lot longer but there's just something about the magic of tonight and the fact that they are – technically – outdoors that just pushes her fast and furious to the brink of bliss and she gladly tumbles over the edge, her body trembling as Santana's mouth seeks out her own, swallowing Brittany's breathy gasps with slow, wet kisses.

Santana's thrusts slow and then stop, working Brittany down as gently as she can manage.

"That…"Brittany breathes, her hands finally unclenching, "…was amazing," she half-laughs, half-gasps.

"Mmmhmm," Santana smirks, brushing her nose against Brittany's.

Brittany grins, head still pressed against the panel and she watches with lidded eyes as Santana brings a glistening hand to her own mouth, sliding damp fingers into the poutiest lips Brittany's ever had the pleasure of kissing and the orgasm-induced fog lifts quickly.

"I…you…" Brittany starts, shaking the cobwebs free enough so that her hands drops to Santana's belt buckle, working quickly and efficiently at the moorings until it's pulled free. "I need you kind of naked, now."

"Only kind of?" Santana teases, still intent on licking her fingers clean.

Brittany grins, slowly lowering her body down until she's kneeling in front of the other woman, her hands still at Santana's hips. With a quick flick of her wrists, she pulls down Santana's jeans and panties in one motion, still grinning up at her.

"Only kind of," she husks out, wasting no time in diving between her legs.

The first taste is enough to wrench a moan from the back of her throat, which Santana echoes, and soon enough, Santana's hips are writhing around and her thighs are trembling as her hands wrap around the bars on the panel because she needs all the help she can get to remain upright and then…

The train car jerks forward.

Brittany pauses and Santana cries out, displeased.

"Brittany…Britt, please…"

That's all it takes.

Sure, anybody could walk in on them now that the emergency locks are disengaged and sure, they're now rapidly approaching the next stop, but, Brittany's got the most exquisite woman she's ever known at her breaking point and none of that even matters.

So, instead of thinking about how much time they have until someone sees them, Brittany focuses on how quickly she has to get Santana off.

Glass.

Half.

Full.

Brittany's hand joins the party, fingers thrusting up and into Santana hard and deep as her tongue wreaks havoc on its own. A well-timed scrape of her teeth against Santana's clit and the woman comes undone, shivering almost comically but all of that pales in comparison to the way Brittany's name sounds falling off of those lips in a breathless voice.

***o*O*o***

"This is Washington and Lake. Doors open on the left at Washington and Lake."

Brittany crosses, uncrosses, then re-crosses her legs again, unable to keep the grin off of her face.

Santana, sitting right next to her, feigns interest in her phone. "Feeling antsy?" she asks, her face a mask of disinterest.

Brittany shakes her head. "Feeling wet."

Santana's thumb pauses on her phone. "Where's your stop?"

"Two more down."

"My place is closer," Santana says, her voice only slightly wavering with trepidation. "Did you…want to come over?"

Brittany smiles widely, her eyes finding Santana's. "I'd love to."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sleigh Ride<strong>_

She's eight and a half.

A big girl.

So, why does she feel so small?

A group of kids rush by her on their way to the swings and she darts out of their way, her pink boots crunching through the snow.

It's her first Christmas in Lima, Ohio and she doesn't know anyone yet because school was already out when she got here.

But her mama and papa thought that she should try and make friends before school starts up again so she's trying to because she wants to have at least one person to play with during recess.

No one's really paying attention to her, all intent on doing their own thing.

There are some boys having a snowball fight, only stopping every now and again to chase one of the girls away when they wander too close.

There's one little boy making a very nicely dressed snowman and she thinks she might want to play with him but then she sees one of the other little boys shove him over while they all laugh and thinks that might not be a safe option.

She could go play with the other little girls playing house it looks like, but there's one really loud, _really_ bossy girl and Santana doesn't think she'll like her that much.

In the end, the decision is taken right out of her hands and a girl, slightly shorter, walks up to her.

"Hi, I'm Brittany," she says brightly, her tongue poking through the spaces in her smile where teeth are missing.

"Hi," Santana says cautiously.

"What's your name?" the girl asks, reaching up to wipe at her dry nose.

"Santana."

"Oooh, what a cool name," Brittany says, eyes lighting up. "That rhymes with Banana, and Bandana, and Atlanta. My name is hard to rhyme unless you make up words, like Mittany."

Santana's lips bend into a small smile. "You could just use Britt. I bet you could get a lot more rhymes from that."

Brittany gapes, apparently never having thought of that. "You're so smart," she whispers and Santana looks away shyly.

Her eyes shift to the snow and then to the wooden sled sitting in the snow and Brittany follows her line of sight, perking up again.

"It's my new sled," she explains, shaking the guiding ropes slightly. "You wanna ride with me?"

Santana bites her lip worriedly, wondering how exactly she can say no without hurting her new friend because Brittany seems nice, and Brittany likes her name, and Brittany's got a pretty smile – even if it's missing a tooth here and there.

But before she can say anything, Brittany's dragging her by the wrist, cat-cartoon covered mittens wrapped around Santana's wrist bone gently. She marches them over to a small hill, the fresh snow surprisingly undisturbed.

Brittany positions the slide just at the top of the hill and lets go of Santana so she can climb on.

"Come on," she says, peering up and squinting through her eyelashes against the sun to see Santana.

"I…" Santana starts, a little embarrassed, "…I don't really know how."

"It's easy," Brittany says, smiling as she pats the back of the sled. "Just climb on. I'll show you."

Santana eases her small frame onto the sled, her legs sliding along the outside of Brittany's and Brittany wraps Santana's arms around her middle.

"Just hold on super close okay," Brittany whispers, squeezing Santana's own hands tighter across her torso. "I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise."

Santana nods, holding on tight as Brittany pushes them off without another word.

It's…a little scary but it's much more fun and it takes only a second for her to realize that Brittany's squeals of delight are mixing with her own.

The sled slides to a stop in front of a bank of snow and they topple over, breathless and laughing.

"See?" Brittany says, patting her knee gently. "Easy, right?"

Santana nods, still laughing. "Let's do it again."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Underneath The Mistletoe<strong>_

"Britt, you made it!" Puck says enthusiastically, slinging an arm around her neck as he ushers her into the room.

"And you're sloshed already," she grins, barely avoiding the sloshing eggnog in his glass. "I thought you said this was going to be a dry party."

"It was gonna be but then Sam showed up with a flask and then Rachel showed up in her sweater and I couldn't help myself. And she's wearing this skirt, man. I can see her ovaries," Puck states, his words slurring around the edges.

Brittany frowns, sipping at his eggnog. "How is that attractive?"

"Whatever," Puck grumps, tugging her further along, past all the bodies mingling and enjoying one another's company.

Holiday music floats around them as glasses clink and laughter bounces off the cream-colored walls. For a party Puck's throwing, it's actually rather classy. All crystal ware and Poinsettias and soft music and hors d'oeuvres. Quite the step up from the kegs and bowls of chips and dips she'd grown accustomed to associating with Puck.

But maybe that was the point.

They're twenty-five now and Puck – or Noah, she should say – had mentioned that he was ready to grow up finally. He'd gotten rid of the mohawk and the 'stang, well actually the Mustang was in the garage, and settled for a close crop and a sedan.

He is an adult, and miles away from the guy who brought a prostitute to their senior prom.

In his defense, Becky was a pricy prostitute.

"S'okay," he slurs, still dragging her around. "You know just about everyone here. Like my mom and sister," he says, pointing to a scowling emo kid and her exuberant mother. She doesn't exactly get why Mrs. "Shalom is my middle name" Puckerman is so ecstatic over what is arguably a very Christian-themed party but then she catches the glass of what is decidedly not apple cider and it all makes sense.

"And of course there's choir girl and Hudson," he mutters, meaning Quinn and Finn. They went to high school with them and while Brittany's fairly certain Quinn's just a little bit gay – her eyes lingered _way_ too long at Cheerios practice – she has to admit that they do make a rather impressive couple, even if they are incredibly stereotypical.

"But there's also a lot of people from my work here too. There's this guy, Rory, from Ireland. He's got a wicked accent, B. And then there's Artie from accounting. I think you'd like him too. And Mike Chang, he's in advertising. He says he used to dance…"

He goes on and on and on and on and then it all very quickly, and very suddenly makes sense what's he's doing.

He's trying to set her up.

But, there's just one tiny little detail of information that's preventing him from being good at it.

Brittany's gay.

Very gay.

Gold star gay and Puck, although she's known him for years, still hasn't quite figured that out and she doesn't know how to tell him.

So she settles for passing comments and casual gestures like 'Angelina Jolie is so hot' or, you know, palming Christie Carpenter's ass at that Fourth of July party (she was really drunk because normally she's far too shy to actually _approach_ a girl she likes. Plus she's still kinda new to this being gay thing. She's still getting used to sleeping with girls while sober so, yeah, not really waving rainbow flags from purple mountaintops), but Puck's never been very receptive which is probably why he still hasn't managed to hook up with Rachel in spite of the fact that she's so into him it's not even funny.

"Come on," he whispers to her, moving toward the Asian guy he was talking about, Mike, she thinks.

"Hey Chang. How's it hanging?"

"It's good," Mike laughs, taking in Puck's flushed face and droopy eyes. "Looks like you're already feeling the Holiday cheer."

"Damn right I am," Puck grunts, turning slightly to Brittany. "I got someone I wanna introduce you to. And, let me preface this by saying this girl's like a sister to me even though she's actually a distant cousin, so no funny business, bro."

"I would never," Mike says, playfully affronted. He holds his hand out. "My name's Mike. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"I'm Brittany," she smiles, taking his hand and promptly letting it go.

"Sweet," Puck grins, still looking loopy. "Well, I'll leave you two alone," he says, louder than he should. Then whispers to Mike, "Try to navigate her to the mistletoe, dude."

Brittany face palms as Mike chuckles uneasily, reading between the lines. "Thanks for the advice, Noah."

"God," Brittany mutters, her cheeks feeling warm, "I'm sorry about him. He always feels like he has to do this."

"No worries," Mike chuckles, nursing a glass of eggnog. "Although, I don't see why he has to. I'm pretty sure you manage on your own."

Brittany grins. "I do okay."

"Yeah," Mike agrees, nodding his head, "I bet. Shame you don't swing my way, though."

Brittany's eyes widen and dart to him suddenly, feeling exposed. "What?" she croaks out.

"Oh, it's cool," Mike dismisses, letting her know he doesn't care. "My best friend Kurt is gay and I've known him all my life so I guess I've developed a rather keen sense of gaydar," he laughs easily. "Too bad I can't like, give that to Noah."

"It'd help."

"Why haven't you told him?" Mike asks, seemingly genuinely interested and Brittany relaxes enough to tell him.

"I don't really know how," she shrugs, eyes darting around the party goers nervously. "It's not that I'm not comfortable with who I am, but I feel like Puck's gonna just be like, 'okay, whatever' unless I have a tangible, breathing girlfriend."

Mike nods, looking on as Puck basically assaults Rachel's Rudolph sweater. "He is a pretty _tangible_ guy isn't he?"

Brittany snorts, beyond used to it. "Yeah, he's always been–"

"Are you okay?" Mike asks after a minute.

And Brittany's not entirely sure she's okay.

I mean, she's still breathing and she can feel her heart beating so she's _alive_ but okay?

That's a stretch.

"Who's that?" she asks, her eyes trained on the angel that just showed up to the party, a group of people in a corner greeting her with raucous laughter and open arms and _gosh,__she__'__s__pretty_.

"She is," Mike agrees ruefully, staring across the room. "She's not interested in me though. As a matter a fact, I'm surprised she's at this party. Her and Noah don't exactly see eye to eye last time I checked. Or rather, she hit him in the eye when he asked her out that one time. He may or may not have said something about making an interracial baby though."

Brittany's still stunned, not at all surprised that she thought her last thought aloud. She can't stop staring and yes, she's seen beautiful women before but this one – _whew_ – she must have just stepped off the cover of a magazine. And like, Brittany's no slouch, you know? But, right now, she feels as though she might as well be wearing a sack of potatoes.

And she should probably stop staring soon because what if the woman catches her leering and doesn't appreciate being gaped at like Lord Tubbington did her one – and only – pet fish that one time. She'd hate to get on her bad side if what Mike said is true.

She's sported a black eye once and it wasn't pretty.

But of course, luck isn't on Brittany's side – or perhaps maybe it is – because no sooner does she think it does the woman suddenly break away from the conversation she's in, her eyes flitting clear across the room to connect with Brittany's.

She smiles, a small one, and Brittany's pretty sure there'd be no distinguishing her cheeks from the red of the poinsettia plants surrounding her.

Looking away, she shifts nervously, feeling incredibly self-conscious about her attire now, even though she's obviously smokin'.

She hopes against hope that the woman's attention has been diverted again because she can't – _cannot_ – handle those eyes on her.

It, like, does stuff…

Chancing a glance, Brittany's breathes a little easier when she finds the woman re-engaged in conversation, arms and hands fluttering about as she tells some story. The animation in her features and gestures is almost alluring and Brittany is more than spellbound again, staring unabashedly.

"Maybe you should talk to her," Mike says suddenly and Brittany looks over to find his peering amusedly at her from above the rim of his drinking glass.

"Uh, no," Brittany laughs, crossing her arms subconsciously and turning around in the opposite direction, like that will prevent her from staring.

It works, until she realizes that she's staring directly at the accent mirror and can see the woman that way.

Damn.

"Well, tough, because I think she wants to talk to you," Mike smiles, raising his glass in subtle salutation to the woman in question, then grinning wider when the woman take starts in their direction.

"Please tell me this mirror is like the ones on my motorcycle where objects are closer than they appear," Brittany almost whimpers, her fists balling up so tightly that her nails are leaving imprints on her palms.

"Not quite," Mike murmurs just as the woman reaches them.

"Michael," she says cheerfully, greeting him with an air kiss to both cheeks, "How are you?"

"I'm great Santana," he says, meaning it. "And you…you look…well, you look beautiful."

"I try," Santana smiles, winking at him. Her eyes ever so slightly shift to Brittany – well, Brittany's back, the blonde is still hyperventilating in front of the mirror. "And you look as dapper as ever. Your girlfriend must be keeping a close eye on you tonight."

Mike frowns. "I'm unattached, Santana. You know that."

"Oh, this isn't your date?" Santana asks, meaning Brittany, and Mike laughs so hard that Brittany – although she's only just met him – contemplates hitting him.

"I'm sorry for the schizophrenic bout of laughter. I just had one of those moments of clarity where everything makes so much more sense now."

"Glad to hear it," Santana says, clearly meaning 'introduce me you idiot'.

"Actually, this is Noah's cousin, I think? Brittany. Brittany, this is Santana Lopez."

_Now__or__never_ Brittany thinks, slowly turning around hoping the nervous smile on her face doesn't look like a grimace.

"Hi," she says, forcing herself to make eye contact, although, not really hard when you have such an appealing subject.

"Hi there," Santana drawls, her attention fully on Brittany at this point.

Mike watches them for a few seconds before clearing his throat, flicking his nearly empty glass. "I'm gonna go refill…and you guys aren't even listening to me." He snorts a laugh, gladly taking his leave.

"So…" Santana starts, crossing her arms across her chest, smirking when she notices Brittany's none too subtle glance at her cleavage, "Are you here with anyone or…?"

"Nope," Brittany answers quickly. "Just me."

"Well, that's good," Santana says, and Brittany quirks a questioning eyebrow. "For me I mean," Santana concludes cheekily, laughing slightly when Brittany's eyes kinda bug out.

She's about to say something else but someone calls her, waving her over and Santana frowns briefly before smiling back at Brittany. "Do me a favor?" she asks, waiting for Brittany to nod before continuing. "Give me thirty minutes to make the rounds and then meet me at the eggnog bowl? I really want to talk to you some more."

Brittany nods, eyes twinkling as she grins. "Okay."

***o*O*o***

The snow's just starting to accumulate outside and Brittany watches it from Puck's kitchen window, a spot a little removed from the party.

After that brief yet intriguing interaction with Santana, she'd needed some place to get her head straight, so to speak.

And she needed to loosen up if she was going to say more than two words to the woman hence the kitchen – and the cupboard…with the wine.

"There you are."

Brittany turns, her wine swirling in her glass as she looks to the kitchen's entrance.

"Hey," she murmurs, licking her lips.

"Hey to you," Santana returns, moving closer and raising an eyebrow. "Thanks for standing me up at the nog bowl. I had to talk to this weird guy with an afro."

"Oh gosh," Brittany gasps, fretting instantly. "I completely forgot."

"It's okay," Santana waves off, a foot in front of her now. "You probably got sidetracked by the wine."

"It is good," Brittany muses, smiling when Santana plucks the glass form her fingers and takes a sip, never taking her eyes off Brittany.

"I bet I know something that tastes better," she murmurs, eyes glinting dangerously.

Brittany almost gaffes, but Santana's arm moves around her, setting the glass on the kitchen counter.

She doesn't move away.

"May I?" she husks, so close that she's practically doing it already.

Brittany whimpers biting her lip and barely manages to nod before Santana's kissing her softly, lips caressing her own so gently that she can almost barely feel them.

Almost.

Not quite though because she feels like she's on fire from the inside but also being cooled off from a slow infuriating burn.

The best dichotomy of feelings ever.

"I was right," Santana murmurs, breaking the kiss after a really long moment or two.

Brittany, for her part, can only blink. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Santana nods, grinning.

Brittany pouts. "Well, I want to do that again."

Santana chuckles. "How ever are we going to pull that off? I mean, we can't just go around kissing one another if it's not for scientific purposes."

She's kidding obviously, but Brittany's never been a great at detecting sarcasm, so she legitimately mulls the question over, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth if concentration.

At long last, she lights up. "I know," she nearly gasps out, grabbing Santana's wrist and dragging her along without another word.

Soon, they're standing in the doorway, facing the party and Santana stares out at them all before looking back expectantly at Brittany. "I don't get it."

"Look up," Brittany says, pointing.

Santana follows her direction and smiles warmly when she sees the little sprig of mistletoe affixed to the doorway.

"Clever girl," she mumbles, impressed and Brittany preens a little, delighted.

Mike spots them first, swallowing his cheese puff hastily before yelling out "Kiss!"

Soon, the entire room is buzzing with the chant and Brittany's cheeks flush dangerously as she faces Santana.

"I think we should kiss now."

Santana nods, moving closer. "It is tradition."

Brittany shifts her body, so close that the heat coming off of Santana might as well be her own, and her hand migrates to Santana's cheek, her thumb caressing it gently as they meet one another halfway.

They kiss until the chants echo away…

***o*O*o***

"So…" Brittany says, swaying a little as they walk away from Puck's house, toward their respective vehicles, "I guess this is where we say goodbye."

"Or…"Santana hedges, squeezing the fingers interwoven between her own, "We could have sex."

Brittany blinks. "My place or yours?"

Santana shrugs. "I was thinking both."

Brittany grins, pulling Santana to her car and pressing her up against the door as she kisses her long, hard, and deep. "Well, Merry Christmas to me."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Santana's Village<strong>_

It's really not something she planned.

Really, _really_ not.

In fact, if there was ever a time Santana would opt _not_ to hit on a hot girl this one – this moment right here – would definitely meet all the requirements.

She's wearing pointed shoes and her mascara's running a little and a little kid she has no relation to – thank _God_ – just slid an unwrapped and therefore sticky candy cane into the palm of her hand.

She's not _prepared_for this at all.

But then again, she wasn't prepared to work here either but that's another story.

Well, actually…no, that's this story.

So, she probably should start there.

You see, what had happened was she may or may not have under-exaggerated the slight fender bender she got into on the way back from Quinn's birthday party.

And as cool as her folks were, even they'd gotten a little testy when a small ding ended up being…not small at all.

"Excuse me?" her father blinks, tugging on his loosely knotted tie. "I don't believe I heard you correctly. Did you say '350 dollars'?"

Santana looks down at the invoice again, then back up at him. "Yeah. That's exactly what I said. Your hearing's fine Dad."

"I think your father's referring to the actual amount. That's rather hefty for a 'ding', don't you think?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Santana shrugs. "I drive cars. I don't know anything other than accelerate, brake, and gas tank."

"How very unfortunate for you," her dad says, sliding his glasses back on. "Since you seem to be so flippant about this 'ding' perhaps you wouldn't mind paying us back for the damage?"

"Sure thing," she nods, crossing her arms. "What, with my weekly allowance I'll have it all back to you by, like, Christmas."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Santana. _You_ are going to pay us back with your own money because _you_, my darling daughter, are getting a job."

"What?" Santana nearly screeches, affronted. "I know I'm hearing things now. I can't get a job. We're coming up on the holiday season. And I'm a very popular girl. There are parties and stuff I have to be in attendance at or people will start forgetting what's cool and what's not. Is that what you want? For the entire high school population to run around looking like Rachel Berry?"

"Getting a job is not the end of the world," her father says, pushing the point. "Besides, it is time you learn to accept the consequences of your actions. You know, responsibility?"

"Did you not just hear my previous statement? The school depends on _me_. How much more responsible can you get?"

Her father stares blankly at her. "You're getting a job."

Santana's getting nowhere with the paternal side of her family, so maybe it's time to give her mother a go. "What about you, Mama? You wouldn't make your only daughter suffer the indignity of a meaningless part-time job, would you?" she pleads, putting for good measure.

"I think your father's points are valid. You're to find a temporary job to cover the expenses."

"This sucks," she sulks, flopping down onto the couch.

How was she supposed to _find_a job?

She's not qualified for anything other than being catered to and shopping and she doubted anyone needed a personal buyer in Lima, Ohio.

There is one last resort option though.

She could finally come out of the closet and then hope the sympathy points get her out of this ridiculousness "get a job" business. It's not like she had anything to lose and worst case scenario, they lock her in her room and she chills out for a month.

Win-win, right?

"What if I told you guys that I liked girls? Like, _really_ liked them?"

Her dad folds the page of his newspaper, unperturbed. "That's nice Santana. Are you dating anyone we know?"

Ugh.

Her parents can be so infuriating.

***o*O*o***

So, she found a job.

Well, technically she whined about the want-ads section in the newspaper giving her paper cuts and, to quote, "she totally needed her fingers now that she was a super mega lesbian" – her father just smiled and nodded at _that_ one – until her mom found her a perfect temporary job at the mall.

Now, initially, Santana was all over it because, hello, mall? But then, the bottom fell out of her perfect scenario.

"So basically," her manager, a middle-aged rounded fellow named Tiny – snort – addresses her briefly while his meaty knuckles gripped a haggard clipboard, "You wear the costume, you smile at the kids, and then you hand them a candy cane. Preferably in that order. Although sometimes you have to bribe the little hellions with the candy so that they'll actually sit still and take the picture."

"I see," Santana says slowly, taking the bright red and green costume from him, cringing slightly as it jingled. "Is there anything else I need to know, Tiny?"

"Yeah," Tiny grunts, pointing her in the direction of the changing rooms. "The girls kick more than the boys."

So, you get the general idea, right?

Santana's working at Santa's little workshop for the season, assisting the picture-taking process primarily but every now and again she also has to operate the train.

It's all making her feel very responsible.

Honestly, she wouldn't even mind it very much if she got to dress up like Mrs. Claus and rock some wickedly hot red number that accentuated her best assets and shit but, unfortunately, she signed on a little late for that, so instead she had to settle for…wait for it…a freaking elf.

And no, not an attractive elf. But a spritely thing with rose-colored cheeks, and pointed shoes and ears and a floppy hat with a bell on the end of it.

She looks – and feels – like an idiot.

And Tommy – the offspring of Courtney Love and Charles Manson – does absolutely nothing to prove her wrong.

"You're way too tall to be an elf. You're probably just a phony. Phony."

"Look, kid, why don't you just suck on your candy cane and shove off," she whispers, still smiling politely so the other parents don't become alarmed.

Tommy's little green eyes narrow. "Why don't _you_?"

"That's it," Santana says, snatching off the stupid little hat but before she goes completely Lima Heights, Tiny's waddling over, informing parents and all that it is officially break time.

"Thank God," she murmurs, rolling her eyes before glaring at the kid again. "Gimme that," she says, snatching the candy away.

"Hey," Tommy protests, pouting. "That's mine."

"Not now it isn't."

***o*O*o***

Santana must be having a crap day because she doesn't even take off the stupid costume while on her break, running the risk of practically anyone she goes to school with spotting her and having to live out her remaining years of high school being referred to as the "hobbit".

She can't really be bothered to, just relieved to be off her feet for an extended amount of time and the white hot chocolate she's nursing just makes her feel all kinds of good.

Until…

"So we meet again, elf…"

Santana's eyes snap open and to her right where a familiar freckled-face little munchkin is standing menacingly, flanked on either side by identical midgets.

She tamps down her initial inclination to burst into a jaunty rendition of _The__Lollipop__Guild_ and rolls her eyes.

"Scram you little ankle-biters. I'm on my break."

"Where's my candy cane?" Tommy almost growls, his 's' drawling on for a while because of the lack of two front-teeth.

She wouldn't be surprised if someone had punched them out.

"I gave it to someone more _deserving_. Although a serial killer would probably rank higher on Santa's list than you," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"You. Did. _What_?"

Remember how she said that Tommy was a combination of Courtney Love and Charles Manson.

Well, he's channeling all Manson now and Santana would be lying if she said she weren't at least a little bit afraid at the moment.

"Chucky," Tommy says, head ticking in the direction of the chubbiest of the three kids. "How much silly string do we have?"

"Two cans," Chucky – _figures_– answers, shaking the cans in question.

"And how many tubs of glitter we have, Damian?"

_Are they serious?_

"More than enough," Damian sneers.

"If I were you I might start running now," Tommy says, voice steely cold and Santana's out of her chair like a shot.

She did not sign up for this.

This being running through the mall in slippery elf shoes and striped tights, clutching the damn jingle bell so that it doesn't inadvertently knock her in the eye.

There is nothing in her job description that mentions full-on sprinting from demonic pre-teens.

She rounds a corner sharply, nearly falling to the ground but a strong hand grips her forearm tightly, righting her and pulling her into a darkened corner.

She squeaks in protest, but the hand relaxes against her arm so that it's merely holding gently and a whispered 'shh' puffs out soft and warm against the back of her ear.

"Who are we hiding from? A rabid reindeer?"

Now, naturally, Santana would go full Lima Heights because that sounded slightly like a dig but the voice sounds so genuine that all her snarkiness just vanishes into thin air.

"These evil little kids," she whispers back, crouching further into the shadows.

"Don't worry," the voice says. "I'll protect you."

Santana stays quiet as she – they? – watch Tommy and his minions squeak by on their tennis shoes, heads turning and eyes darting around looking for her.

Tommy sucks his teeth and stomps his foot, glaring angrily at the vacant area, "Where'd she go?"

"Maybe she was a real elf," Chucky offers, staring around in wonderment.

"Yeah," Damian agrees. "Santa probably came to rescue her."

Santana almost laughs at that because even though they are absolutely dreadful, those little kids still were innocent enough to believe in magic.

"C'mon," Tommy grumbles, turning back dejectedly, "Let's get outta here."

Santana breathes a little easier and the grip on her arm falls away entirely and she's reminded that she's not alone.

Spinning around in the small space, she finally takes a look at her rescuer and this…well, let's just say it's not Santa.

"Hi," the girl says shyly, her arms folded behind her back as she stares hard at the mall's shiny floor.

Santana grins, leaning back against the column that had provided them invisibility. "Hey."

"I didn't mean to scare you or anything. I just saw you running and figured you needed help, so…" she trails off in a shrug, her cheeks flushing and her eyes ever so often meeting Santana's.

It's cute.

"You didn't scare me," Santana assures her, reaching out tentatively to trail a hand down a hoodie-covered arm. "I'm glad you came to my rescue. You're like a blonde, blue-eyed super hero."

The girl grins and it's got to be one of the prettiest smiles Santana's ever seen.

"Hey listen," Santana says, feeling ever confident – or feeling way too much confidence for someone dressed as a Christmas elf. "I'm on my break and since I didn't get to enjoy my hot chocolate because of that," she says, jerking her thumb behind her, "I was gonna try to do it again and I was wondering if you'd like to join me. You know, just to ward off any more of Satan's offspring."

"Okay," the girl agrees, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Cool," Santana grins, pleased. "I'm Santana by the way," she says, offering her hand.

"I'm Brittany," the girl replies, taking her hand gently and smiling when Santana doesn't let go.

_**The End.**_


	31. Being All You Can Be

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **A fic dedicated to the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell"

**Author's Note #2: **For those of you that don't know a.k.a. a great deal of you, to commemorate my 900 plus reviews on this story, I went through the reviews and picked out every 100th signed reviewer and asked them if they had a story prompt they'd like to be written and I fully intend to write these one-shots primarily - and not connected with this story, either. They'll be stand alones. But, yeah, so like the thousandth reviewer's got a treat coming to them. For those of you that sent me your prompts, be patient, I am working on them it's just...life you know? Work and women-woman, I mean woman. Anyway, thanks for sticking around and sticking it out with me. Nineteen more after this. A very special and gigantic THANK YOU to my beta for editing this thing like a million times - I've been working on it forever it seems. Since before Halloween that's for sure. And we more than likely still missed stuff. Oh well, that's how it be's sometimes. Thanks again, guys. Enjoy!

**Added 2/8/12:** Guys, do me a favor and go vote for Brittana on that Eonline poll thing. Normally, I don't care much for ship wars because, let's be real, BRITTANA trumps _all_, but I promised a few readers I'd lend my support. P.S. If you vote for Faberry stop reading my fic immediately, lol.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday<strong>

**Lima, Ohio**

**1200 hours**

"Hey," Rachel greets, approaching Finn with her arms opened wide.

Finn brushes his shirt down as she stands up, hugging her back enthusiastically.

The Lima Bean is pretty crowded for a Wednesday afternoon, but their midday rendezvous are literally the only time they have now that their hectic work schedules have picked up.

Finn finds them a small table near the television, sliding Rachel's drink over to her when she sits down.

"How's your day been so far?" he asks, huddling closer.

Rachel sighs, smiling a little. "Those kids have the Hump Day blues for sure. Byron almost sharpened his pinky finger. Luckily I was alert enough to stop him. Tina would have had my head if anything had happened to her precious little boy."

Finn chuckles, shaking his head. "That kid's a terror."

"Yeah," Rachel agrees, glancing at the television as the soap opera drama cuts away to a news brief. "What about you? How was your day?"

"Oh it's cool," Finn shrugs. "We finally got those engine parts for that '42 Ford we're working on. She's a beaut, Rach."

"Is that right?" Rachel says, somewhat distractedly, the television catching her attention.

"..._eighteen troops are presumed dead in what is easily the worst attack on American soldiers since President Obama's latest round of withdrawals. The first platoon, company A of the 504__th__ Infantry Regiment under the command of Lieutenant Brittany S. Pierce encountered heavy resistance at a routine checkpoint in __Kandahar. Details of the attack are still vague but General Allen fears the worst..."_

The screen cuts away to the general speaking at a podium, giving a small press conference and Rachel's hand covers her mouth.

"What?" Finn asks, looking worriedly between Rachel and the television – a picture of Lieutenant Pierce up there now. "What's wrong?"

Rachel shakes her head, fighting the sudden onslaught of tears. "I knew that girl."

Finn's jaw drops. "Did you?"

The brunette nods, a watery smile taking form on her face. "We went to school together."

***o*O*o***

_**Nine days later...**_

**Bagram Airfield**

**Kabul Afghanistan**

**1200 hours**

Lieutenant Colonel David R. Karofsky hangs up the satellite phone, face stoic.

It wasn't the best of news, although it was better than he'd anticipated.

He steps out of the small conference room and into the command center, eyes searching out his target. "Captain Chang."

"Yes sir," Captain Mike Chang answers, on his feet in an instant, GPS radar screen forgotten.

"Find me Lieutenant Lopez, ASAP."

***o*O*o***

Down time is sometimes the worst time when you're in the United States Army.

And after fighting tooth and nail to earn the title of Lieutenant in a male-dominated military, Santana Lopez was finding it was doubly hard to be a female in a position of power in the army.

Her colleagues stayed away from her because she was a woman and her inferiors stayed away from her because she was superior. Well, all but one, but he was a kiss-ass at best.

It is not what one would call a charmed life.

Most times she'd just lie in her barracks, staring up at the ceiling and let her mind drift back to a simpler time – to the life she had before she dedicated her life to Uncle Sam.

Just like this time, when she finds herself idly wondering what her best friend Mercedes Jones is up to.

Actually, she just really hopes the girl is still her best friend.

Before she got on a bus and never looked back, she'd written her a long, heartfelt letter culminating in the words "I'm gay."

At the time she'd wanted someone else to know in case she never made it back.

Now, with her fourth tour drawing to a close, she wonders what would happen if she ever turned up back home.

They'll probably put up a great wall of "Get outta here, you lady lover."

"Lieutenant!" Captain Chang does not excuse himself as he enters her barracks and she tamps down her natural impulse to kick him in the nuts.

"Yes Captain," she yells, jumping up from her bunk and standing at attention.

"At ease soldier," Mike says, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. "The Lieutenant Colonel requests your presence at 1400 hours. Bring your NCO."

"Yes Sir," Santana grunts, ignoring his request that she relax. She salutes him on his way out, off to find Blaine as soon as the good Captain is gone.

***o*O*o***

**Friday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**1300 hours**

Glimpses.

But she can't really call them that.

The tiny slivers of daylight she can see are nothing compared to the oppressive darkness surrounding her.

The hood over her head is stuffy and it reeks of cow manure.

She doesn't know how many of her men are lost, only that some are.

And she'd...she'd led them to their deaths.

That thought drains her more than the lack of food, water, or the ache from her arms being suspended above her head.

Lieutenant Brittany S. Pierce strained for more glimpses until she blacked out.

***o*O*o***

**Friday**

**Bagram Airfield**

**Kabul Afghanistan**

**1400 hours**

"It's a simple in and out, pick up operation," Lt. Colonel Karofsky explains, his eyes twinkling with mirth as they settle on Santana.

Two things she hates about the military: Men and their hormones and men and their prejudices. Sometimes she wonders how some women can stand to be straight.

"Let me see if I understand you correctly Sir, you want me and my men to pick up new unis?"

"Right you are, Lopez," Karofsky says, smug look on his face. Captain Chang frowns but otherwise stays silent. There's not much he can do seeing as Karofsky is his commanding officer, even though he wants to.

"That's not going to be a problem," Karofsky continues, raising an eyebrow, "Is it Lieutenant?"

Santana's eye twitches, but before she can speak up, her NCO Sergeant Blaine Anderson steps forward, "I can assure you that it will be no problem at all, Sir."

"Thank you for your assurance, Anderson, but the Lieutenant is free to speak for herself."

Santana's face heats up and her eyes narrow just a bit but she risks a glance over at Blaine and his expressive eyes.

She opts to proceed with caution.

_Much_ caution.

"Not a problem, Sir."

"Okay then," Karofsky says curtly. "Dismissed. I have more pressing matters to attend to."

***o*O*o***

Blaine has a hard time keeping up with her when they leave the main complex, Santana's pace and footsteps fueled by the fire of her _rage_.

"Um, permission to speak Lieutenant?" he finally asks when he's caught up to her.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Oh for crying out loud, just say what you have to say Blaine. You didn't have any qualms about speaking out of turn a minute ago."

Her eyes flash as she rounds on him and Blaine gulps.

"I had to. Your eye did that thing it did when you shot that rooster."

"That fucker had it coming to him with his jacked up sense of time," she grumbles. What the hell kinda rooster crows at fucking _midnight_?

She glares at the scraggly trio of soldiers saluting her as she enters the living quarters.

They're actually kind of standing in her way.

"What are you morons doing?"

The blonde guy stands taller than the rest. "We're saluting you, Lieutenant."

"Yeah," she nods, pulling out her government issued 9mm and brandishing it at them, "And you're also in my way. Scram."

Blaine raises his eyebrows in apology at the three kids before following. "Do you wanna...talk about it?" he asks her tentatively.

"What's there to talk about?" Santana shrugs, finally in her barracks. She opens her foot locker and tosses the gun inside, instead pulling out her rifle. "We got shafted, again."

"But we got a mission."

"To pick up the dry-cleaning," she fires back, mantling the rifle in seconds then waving it around, Blaine's eyes crossing as he inadvertently finds himself staring down the barrel of her gun. "We might as well leave the artillery and stuff on base. No sense in lugging around all that extra weight. Oh, you know what, maybe we should stop and get him some McDonald's too."

"Okay, first," Blaine starts, reaching out for the firearm. "How about we stop pointing loaded weapons at people? And secondly, why would you want to risk life and limb on some dangerous mission? I love a little action as much as the next guy but I don't have a death-"

"Hey," Santana cuts him off. "I signed up in this army to serve my country to the best of my ability. Just because I have boobs they act like I'm Uncle Sam's designated housewife."

She sighs, feeling very weary all of a sudden. "You know what? I need to be alone."

"But, Lieut-"

"That's an order, Sergeant," she semi-yells, her eyes dead serious.

Blaine stands at attention to salute her. "Yes, Lieutenant."

***o*O*o***

**Friday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**1900 hours**

Brittany stirs at the sound of grinding.

Something is being shifted, and it sounds like metal being dragged along a heavy slab of concrete and the noise only intensifies by the second.

Suddenly it stops and her hair feels as though it's being pulled from her scalp when the hood is yanked away, the searing throbbing against her skull almost intolerable.

A flashlight – at close proximity – is shining directly at her face, obscuring her vision but she can make out shadows, and she can hear.

There are men, about three of them, muttering in a different language.

She can make out a few words from her training:

Soldier.

American.

Kill.

Quite frankly, she'd probably welcome death at the moment.

She hasn't eaten, hasn't drunk, and hasn't been allowed to see the light of day for ages.

They've got her caged and chained like an animal – but not even because she would never ever treat Lord Tubbington this way.

Just when she's about to succumb to her malnourishment again, someone's breath is at her ear. She turns toward it only to have her face roughly turned back toward the blinding light.

"Do you know why you are still alive?" the man asks, his accent heavy. "I have plans for you."

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Bagram Airfield, Kabul Afghanistan**

**1400 hours**

Santana tightens the strap around her helmet.

It's not nerves, not really because she doesn't even really do the whole nervous thing.

This is more like excited energy because even though this mission is completely bogus and as routine as brushing her teeth, there's nothing like a little action and she can't help but get amped about it.

She lives for this – among other things.

A sly grin works itself across her face as she taps her chest pocket where the torn out picture of Naya Rivera from _FHM_ magazine is housed.

People say she kind of looks like her but Santana doesn't really see it.

"Okay boys," Santana starts, sitting up straighter in the jeep. There are only ten of them all together; half of her actual platoon, but there was no point in dragging all of them off base for this. "You've already been briefed so I'll keep this short and sweet. We arrive at the pick at 1500 hours. We make the exchange; that's four hands in and four hands out. Then, we rendezvous at the drop off spot. Anybody not back at the drop spot at 1600 hours'll have to find his own way back to the nest," she concludes. "And good luck finding a taxi around these parts, boys," she adds with a grin, speaking over the rumble of the engine.

The rest of the soldiers laugh, completely at ease. All except for Private Johnson, who looks stricken.

"Whatsa matter there, Johnson?" Santana asks, patting the guy on the arm. "Can't take a joke?"

Johnson takes a breath, but a lone tear squeezes out of his eye when he tries to exhale.

"Jesus, Johnson. I'm just kidding," she says, confused by his reaction. "I won't leave you behind."

The young soldier opens his mouth again but instead of words coming out, blood pours from his lips.

"He's been shot," one of the men call out, eyeing the small hole in Johnson's vest.

The jeep rocks dramatically as the driver swerves to avoid incoming fire.

Santana, still unbuckled, pitches to the side and searches the landscape for the other jeep – the one Blaine is riding in.

"We're under attack," another one of her men calls out, pointing into the horizon where a caravan of vehicles are perched and ready...and armed to the max.

"Orders, Lieutenant?" the driver asks, obviously shell-shocked.

"What do you mean, 'orders'? Turn this son of a bitch around!" She grabs her walkie, barking into the speaker. "Anderson! Abort, abort! Hostile territory! We've sustained one casualty! Abort the mission! Do you copy?"

"Affirmative," Blaine's tinny voice crackles through. "Aborting mission."

She's thinking fast and holding on for dear life when the driver, Reggie, slams on the brakes and turns the car around like he's racing a fucking video game car. She recovers and grabs her rifle, returning fire, shooting out of the shattered windshield, trying in vain to counter the bullets that are coming at them fast and furious.

Within seconds Artie is beside her, helping while Sam – the blonde moron who'd saluted her yesterday – tends to the wounded Johnson.

"This is so not fucking cool, man," Reggie shrieks, swerving like a madman to avoid the divots in the makeshift road.

They cannot afford a flat tire at the moment.

"Hey Trouty Mouth," Santana grunts, letting off another several rounds.

"Yeah Lieutenant?" Sam peeks up from his task.

"When we get back to the base, make sure to remind me to smack Reggie."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Fucking Karofsky," Santana murmurs. "Simple mission my ass."

Artie's concentrating so hard on hitting the sharpshooters that he doesn't notice the white van until it's too late. "Uh oh."

Santana glances over and even she can't stop her eyes from widening. "Fuck me."

Artie swallows. "Normally I'd oblige Lieutenant but...we're about to die."

"Brace yourself gents!" Santana yells, crossing herself. "This is gonna be one helluva kick to the fun sack."

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**1600 hours**

After having finally eaten (soggy oats and water) and being hosed down (kind of grateful for that, actually), Brittany feels her body beginning to betray her again, succumbing to the lull of sleep.

She wants to stay alert because the noises in the distance are more frequent than they have been; louder, too.

But after being so starved for nutrition, her body is simply trying to reserve what little energy she has acquired.

...

The gunshot makes a lasting impression though.

***o*O*o***

Santana can still hear the sound of the tires spinning but she doesn't feel as though she's moving.

That's not good.

"Lieutenant!"

She jerks toward the noise, attempts to move but her legs feel incredibly heavy.

Something large plops down beside her, grunting heavily. There's a muffled curse and a straining sound and then she's being dragged a short distance and flipped onto her back.

"Lieutenant," the voice repeats again, questioning.

Santana groans, shifting again and this time her limbs respond. "Shit," she mutters, the aches in her body starting to make themselves known. "What the hell happened?"

The blonde soldier, Sam, is kneeling over her, his rifle slung over his shoulder. "The jeep got RPGed, Lieutenant," he explains. "I...I went over to see if anyone but..." he trails off, shaking his head.

Everything starts coming back to her, quickly. The distant shouting and the sound of bullets ricocheting off of metal reaches her ears and she's at full alert almost instantaneously, moving her joints and her muscles until she's in a crouched position. "Have you radioed for help?"

Sam reaches up and shows her his cracked radio, the speaker smashed to bits.

Taking stock of the situation, she notes that most of the transmitting devices were on the now burning jeep twenty or so feet away from them. The vehicle is in two pieces, the front end is flipped over and she can barely make out the bloodied silhouette of Reggie slumped against the steering wheel. The rear of the vehicle – where she and Artie were sitting is still mostly intact. Artie is actually still sitting there, strapped to the back bucket seat.

"Maybe his radio is still working," she whispers to herself, a glimmer of hope forming. "Follow me," she hisses to Sam and she gets on her belly, staying as low to the ground as possible to prevent blowing their cover.

It's a slow crawl and time seems to creep by as she waits in dread for an onslaught of bullets. But they never come, and soon she and Sam reach the hatch, the upturned camouflage vehicle providing them cover.

Sam raids the hatch for ammunition and weapons as she checks on the condition of the electronics on board. Like she suspected, they're all toast. Gravely, she turns her attention to Artie, the young soldier's slumping form is straining forward against his seatbelt. She's not entirely religious but she crosses herself before pushing him back, eyes searching for a radio, but she startles and pulls her hands away when he lets out a low moan.

"Abrams?" she questions, reaching for him again, "Soldier, answer me?"

She pushes him up again and his face contorts in pain, hands clutching his rifle reflexively. "Ow," he mutters, squinting his eyes open.

She laughs, even though nothing about this is funny. She moves to unbuckle his seatbelt and Artie falls forward, unable to stop gravity and they both go tumbling to the ground.

"Get off me," Santana grunts, pushing him but his weight feels almost exceedingly heavy as she moves him over. Sam helps her get from underneath Artie and that's when she finally notices the small, blink and you miss it, rivulet of blood trailing slowly down Artie's back.

Artie pushes himself up on his arms, eyes widening slowly. "I can't..." he says, straining, "Lieutenant, I can't move my legs."

Sam helps him over onto his back, avoiding pressing against the entry wound, but Artie's still frantically scrambling to move, only his upper body responding the way he wants it too. "I can't move. I can't fucking move my legs."

He starts to pound on them but Sam quickly grabs his arms, immobilizing him further.

"Abrams, now, you listen to me," Santana says, getting into his face. "You are a soldier in the United States Army. Pull yourself together so we can all get the fuck out of here. There are no pussies under my command. This," she says, gesturing to his legs with a quick nod of her head, "is a minor setback. Now, compose yourself or I swear to God I. Will. Ends. You. And that's an order."

"Yes Lieutenant," Artie nods, wiping a tear from his cheek.

She nods tightly and snatches his radio off of his chest and hands it to Sam. "Evans, radio Anderson. Inform him of our situation and give him our approximate coordinates. I'm going to get Abrams ready for transport."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Sam says, already radioing out.

"Come on," Santana grunts pulling Artie up and propping him against what's left of the jeep.

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**1700 hours**

There's a burning in Brittany's side, but aside from the initial flinch she didn't react much.

It's part of their training – the psychological approach. The enemy, once cornered, has been trained to cut all losses, eliminate captives, and destroy all evidence.

So when the barrage of bullets starts ricocheting around the chamber, she plays dead to the best of her abilities, fighting against her body's natural impulse to cry out in pain.

It works to her advantage as they leave her shortly after; their hurried footsteps running every which way.

That's right before the explosion.

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**1900 hours**

"There they are!" Private Rutherford hollers, pointing his long arm in the direction of the burning jeep.

"We've got company too, Serge," Private Azimio Adams adds, eyeing the several rebels clamoring down the sandy foothills.

"Okay, soldiers!" Blaine yells, looking around the jeep. "This is what we're going to do. Rutherford, Puckerman: you'll retrieve Abrams. Adams and I'll cover you. Fabray," he says, motioning to the driver, "You look alive and don't get hit. Five minutes and we're back in the hatch. No exceptions!"

***o*O*o***

It had almost worked to perfection.

Their plan.

In fact, given another ten minutes or so, it would have.

Artie was being helped into the back of the hatch, Rutherford and Puckerman pulling while Private First Class Sam and Azimio provided cover.

Blaine and Santana were holding off the closest rebels, heavy gunfire making it much more difficult.

"Lieutenant!" Blaine yells over the rumbling as they inched there way backwards to the van, rifles going off nonstop.

"Yeah?" Santana responds.

"If I don't make it through this-"

"Don't say shit like that," Santana grunts, reloading in the blink of an eye. "Real soldiers don't say shit like that."

"Please, Lieutenant," Blaine interrupts, his chin quivering slightly, "I have to say this. Someone _has_ to know."

Santana fires a quick glance in his direction, taking her eyes off of her target momentarily and that's all it takes.

The ground rumbles beneath them and opens up with smoke billowing from cracks everywhere like some kind of black sand geyser.

She yells and grabs at the gravel as the floor gives way beneath her and then she's falling, hands grasping at nothing.

Falling, with nothing to slow her momentum.

***o*O*o***

Brittany comes to and the first thing she notices is her foot kinda hurts.

The next thing is – as she rubs her knee with her hands is – that her hands are free...kind of.

They're still cuffed and chained together but she's no longer tethered to the wall.

Using her hands to pull that stinking, oppressive cover off of her head, she finally is able to clearly observe her surroundings.

It's dark...really dark and smoky and there are large stones and rubble everywhere. The explosion seems to have come from an area adjacent to her but far enough away that most of the damage didn't reach her. Still, luckily enough, the wall her hands were chained to had collapsed.

Unluckily, a nice sized boulder is pinching her toe.

Using what little waning strength she has left, Brittany pushes the rock aside and flexes her throbbing foot but smiles nonetheless at its flexibility.

At least it's not broken.

Cautiously, she pushes herself up off the ground, her weakened body groaning and straining in response. She can't make out much of anything but there's a tiny sliver of light coming from the far corner of the room and she gingerly moves toward it, pushing against the wall as hard as she can until it gives away enough for her to get through.

***o*O*o***

Santana hits the ground hard, feet first, absorbing most of the shock with her knees having prepared herself for impact.

They must've fallen only twenty feet or so but it feels like they were falling forever.

Blaine pushes himself back to his feet and scrambles over to her. "Are you okay, Lieutenant?"

"I'm fine Anderson. Don't get your panties in a bunch," she grunts out, pushing him away as she sits up. "Secure the area."

Blaine reaches for his flashlight and flicks it on, illuminating the dusty chamber. "It appears to be some kind of underground complex, Lieutenant." He sniffs the air. "I smell cordite as well. Someone exploded the place."

"I kind of figured that Anderson," Santana says with a roll of her eyes, brushing off the ass of her uniform as a piece of rubble falls from above, catching Blaine's eye. "Any other assessments?"

"We should probably vacate this particular chamber, Lieutenant," Blaine says backing away from the corner where the small, hand-sized rock landed.

Santana cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"

Blaine grabs her wrist, tugging her along as he takes off running in the opposite direction. "Grenade!"

***o*O*o***

Brittany slows to a stop when she hears hurried footsteps coming in her direction.

Thinking fast, she clutches on tightly to her sole weapon – a small boulder – and waits in the shadows as the sounds draw nearer.

***o*O*o***

Blaine casts anxious looks behind him, half expecting the insurgents to be on their tail every time he turns around.

The passageway has narrowed somewhat so that Blaine has to trail Santana by at least a half-step.

Santana's running blindly, every now and again getting a glimpse at what's in front of her by the illumination of Blaine's flashlight, still alit and hanging from his hip clip.

So when someone reaches out and grabs her, wrapping a chain around her neck, all she sees is a flash of silver before the words are literally smothered by her airway being choked off.

Blaine halts too, grabbing his rifle and aiming it at the shadowy figure holding Santana hostage. "Let her go!"

***o*O*o***

"Drop it!" Brittany yells at the same time the other person speaks.

Her eyes are so unaccustomed to natural light that she can't see anything. There are fingernails clawing at the backs of her hands, but she refuses to let up. She's not going down without a fight. "Drop. It," she grits out, pulling the chains tighter.

***o*O*o***

Blaine's finger tightens on the trigger when Santana gags against the restraint of their attacker. The flashlight by his side swings back and forth, every now and again flashing on pale skin and light hair.

He doesn't pull his finger away until he sees the ID tags.

Blaine lowers his weapon, barely registering Santana's incredulous widening eyes before reciting his rank by memory.

***o*O*o***

"Sergeant Blaine T. Anderson, second platoon, alpha company of the 504th," the person she's not strangling says, rifle hanging loosely on his side as he salutes Brittany.

Brittany's hands relax and she promptly uncoils the chain from around the other person's neck, setting them free. She raises her hand to her temple. "Lieutenant Brittany S. Pierce, first platoon, alpha company of the 504th Infantry Regiment," she recites.

***o*O*o***

**Bagram Airfield**

**Kabul Afghanistan**

**2100 hours**

Karofsky's still going over the afternoon's mission logs when the call comes in, seconds before Captain Chang bursts into his office.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he breathes out, saluting him quickly, "There's been an attack. The second platoon. Lieutenant Lopez and Sergeant Anderson are missing in action, Sir."

"What the hell happened?" Karofsky demands, standing up abruptly, "This was supposed to be a routine pick-up."

"We're still getting the intel, Sir. The remaining members of the unit just turned up at the medical facility."

***o*O*o***

Sam rubs his chin, unaffected by the dried blood on his dirty hands.

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd first enlisted if the military was _for_ him, but over time, he'd come to consider this place his home, and these people his family.

So now, with the whereabouts of his Lieutenant and his Sergeant unknown, he was literally itching to get back out there.

"Damn it," he mutters, still waiting outside of the higher ups command room, "What's taking them so goddamn long?"

"Chill the hell out, Evans," Rutherford grumbles, sitting completely rigid. "You know it's gotta work its way up the chain first."

"I just want to get back out there," Sam says, punching a fist into his hand, "We should have just gone back."

Fabray speaks up, "We followed orders."

"We left our leaders hanging," Sam shoots back, fiercely, "That's what we did."

Quinn raises an eyebrow, rising to her feet. "Are you trying to say something Private?"

"_I_ wanted to go Corporal."

"And I didn't?" Quinn erupts, not backing down, "Abrams was bleeding all over the place, those Jihadists or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves now were trying to take us out. If we'd have gone back we'd _all_ be dead."

Sam sneers. "I just think you're a coward."

Azimio and Rutherford jump up but not before Quinn slaps Sam's face hard, splitting his lip.

"Cut it out!" Rutherford yells, keeping Quinn at arm's length, "This is the time to come together, not fall apart."

"Yeah," Azimio agrees, pushing Sam back into his chair, "So quit bitching about what we should've done and start thinking about a course of action that's useful to us now, because that other shit is over."

Sam just laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm, but he really looks like he wants to cry.

The door to the conference room finally opens and they all stand as Captain Chang emerges, face stoic and devoid of any expression. "The Lieutenant Colonel will see you now," he says, stepping aside to allow them into the room.

"Soldiers," Karofsky addresses them, his fingers spread out on the face of his desk as he stands, "I trust you all know what this meeting is about."

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"At this point in time our Commander doesn't think it sound to pursue invasive action to retrieve lost 'assets'," he says, keeping his voice calm and level, "So your assistance on this mission is no longer needed. Captain Chang will debrief you on the status of Private Abrams. And gentlemen...and woman," Karofsky makes it a point to add, catching Quinn's eye, "I do trust that you won't do anything to disgrace this nation's military."

The words aren't exactly the right ones but there is something about the Lieutenant Colonel's demeanor that doesn't quite match up with what he's saying. The constant looks in Captain Chang's direction. The words he stresses like "trust" and "won't".

It's almost like he _wants_ them to disobey his orders.

"Good night, soldiers," Karofsky finishes, saluting them all back and pausing momentarily to pat Captain Chang on the shoulder.

Once he's out of the room, Captain Chang rounds on them, speaking quietly. "Listen up and listen up good because I can only say this once. It is not our intention to leave any member of this army behind, do I make myself clear? Nod if you understand."

They all nod, sharing confused looks.

"We have to move quickly to make up for lost time and this mission will be completely black ops considering we're disobeying direct orders. If we're made, we'll more than likely be court marshaled. All of us."

Sam shares a look with the remaining members of his unit, silently asking their permission to speak on their behalf, "What... mission, Sir?"

Mike pauses, fixing each soldier with a stern look, "A rescue mission."

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**2100 hours**

"It's not much," Blaine says, handing Brittany a meat pack, "But it's what I've got."

The blonde barely manages a 'thank you' before she's shoving the dehydrated food into her mouth, munching on it greedily.

In the far corner, Santana is brooding, still smarting as her hand works at the imprints the chain made on her neck. She's glaring at the blonde when Blaine comes to sit down next to her.

"What do we do, Lieutenant?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Anderson. And drop the Lieutenant thing for now. Nobody's gonna bust your balls for not stating my rank," Santana grumbles, rolling her neck, "Unless of course homicidal soldier Barbie has issues with it."

Brittany rolls her eyes, still munching away.

"To be fair, Lieu-" Blaine cuts himself off when Santana glares at him, "I mean, Santana, she didn't know we were friendly. And," he lowers his voice, "She's obviously been held captive."

"I know that," Santana snaps, not needing or wanting Blaine to _explain_ things to her. She's a goddamn Lieutenant for crying out loud.

Wordlessly, Santana works her canteen out of its holding place, crawling over in the small space until she's perched right next to the other woman. "Here," she barks out, thrusting the container at her.

Brittany, mouth still full, manages a small smile but when she reaches for the water it turns into a grimace and she doubles back, reaching for her stomach.

The bullet only grazed her, gratefully, but she'd bled quite a bit and it still stings horribly. "Ouch," she moans, gripping the spot gently.

"What's wrong?" Santana asks worriedly, sitting the flask down and reaching for her pen light instead.

She directs the light beam onto Brittany, following the woman's arm until its resting on the hand pressing against the wound. "What happened?"

Brittany shakes her head, gritting her teeth as she presses back against the chamber wall. "It's nothing," she grunts out.

"Let me see," Santana says gently, shuffling closer.

Brittany still looks hesitant, her blue eyes muddled with trepidation, but when Santana whispers out, "Please?" she nods and moves her hand, holding in a yelp as Santana lifts up the tank top slowly, the fabric sticking to her body because of the dried up blood.

"When did this happen?" Santana asks.

Brittany shakes her head, everything's so jumbled up in her mind. "I'm not sure. Maybe today."

"Blaine," Santana says, her eyes still glued to the wound, "I know you've got your medic kit."

Blaine's already digging through his small satchel – non-regulation, but Santana doesn't refer to him as the All-Purpose Private (even though technically he's a Sergeant) for nothing – for the medical kit, set on retrieving the saline and antiseptic.

"It's not too deep," Santana assesses, peering intently at Brittany's stomach, "We are gonna have to sterilize it though to prevent infection."

Brittany nods, knowing exactly what that entails. Blaine crawls over now and they both help Brittany onto her back, Santana still holding the light source steady.

"Do you need something to bite on?" Santana asks her and even in the dim light she can see Brittany's face color a little bit as she shakes her head.

"Could you...um," Brittany starts, keeping her eyes faced upwards and away from Santana and Blaine, "Could you maybe just hold my hand?"

Santana blinks, the automatic-ness of the task slipping away with the quietly spoken words. It feels weightier than it should – the question – but she just nods slowly, hesitating for just a moment before sliding her rough palm against Brittany's surprisingly soft one.

Brittany takes a deep breath, her stomach muscles relaxing and constricting with the labor of it, and nods once, signaling for Blaine to go ahead.

He's quick and methodical but that doesn't stop the pain Brittany feels and Santana, sensing her discomfort, just squeezes tighter.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant" he murmurs, opening another pack of the solution, lips pressed tight in concentration as his eyes focus in the dim light. "There's still a little debris. One more should do us well."

Brittany breathes through the pain. "You're just trying to make sure I keep my shirt up," she quips and Santana smiles wryly as Blaine – the consummate professional – actually breaks character.

He reddens, squeezing the solution onto the afflicted area. "Maybe," he concurs, albeit jokingly, his careful fingers making quick work with the clean gauze. A few passes with the antiseptic and a not-too-shabby patch job and Brittany's wound is all clean and covered.

"There," Blaine says proudly, affixing the last piece of sterile tape. "We'll have to watch it to make sure it's not infected but I think it'll be okay for now."

Brittany uses her free hand to push herself back up, smiling through a grimace. "Thank you, Sergeant Blaine."

Blaine gets this completely sheepish look on his face and, well to be honest, he looks rather uncomfortable.

Santana's about to crack a joke – inappropriate as it is given their current situation – about how they should get a room when Brittany's fingers squeeze gently.

Crap.

She forgot she was holding it.

"And thank you," Brittany adds quietly, squeezing again before untangling her hand.

"Now that that is taken care of," Brittany starts, retrieving Santana's forgotten canteen, "We should try to come up with a plan."

***o*O*o***

**Bagram Airfield**

**Kabul Afghanistan**

**2300 hours**

"That's your plan?"

Azimio looks over the disapproving, judging faces of the remaining members of his unit. "What's wrong with my plan? It's a good plan."

"I don't think walking into a rebel camp and yelling, 'Let go of my peeps afore I explodes ya'll's asses' constitutes a good plan," Puck deadpans.

"Well, I don't hear you guys coming up with anything," he shoots back, crossing his meaty arms over his chest defensively.

"Whatever we do…" Sam starts, staring into the distance in contemplation, "…we have to do it quietly. Efficiently but quietly. We have to be like…ninjas or something."

"Okay, look bruh," Azimio starts, his voice carrying louder than it should, "I'm not a finesse guy. I like bombs and booms, aight? Now, what part of that sounds quiet to you?"

"He's right," Quinn says, seizing Sam's arm. "But, maybe we can use him anyway…"

***o*O*o***

Quinn and Puck crawl into position at the top of the hill, the dark of night settling in around them.

"Alpha to Sigma," Sam's voice sounds in their ears, "Location?"

"Nesting," Quinn responds, eyes trained on her target.

"Beta, come in."

"Yo," Azimio grumps, slumped over the steering wheel as he sits in the van.

"You in position?" Sam asks.

"The blackbird is singing in the dead of night."

Quinn and Puck share a strange look.

"What?" Sam asks, confused.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be fool. Now, can we get this crackin' or what?"

"Try not to get shot, okay?" Sam pleads quietly, observing from his own position. "We've got four hours to retrieve the targets. We meet up at 0300. Radio silence commencing in five, four, three, two…"

***o*O*o***

**Saturday**

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**2300 hours**

"So, we have less than four hours before dawn," Santana surmises, glancing at her wristwatch. "That means we have about three hours to make it from wherever the hell we are to base. Now, Brittany," she starts, looking to her blonde counterpart, "Can you remember anything that may help tell us where we are location wise? The name of a city or river? Anything?"

Brittany squints, seemingly playing the strange words back in her mind but none of it makes much sense. "I'm sorry, San," she says, wishing she could be of more help. Santana blinks at the nickname. "I keep trying to remember but all of those guys just sounded like they had major phlegm problems."

"That's okay," Santana reassures her with a sigh. "We'll come up with something. I didn't make Lieutenant for nothing and I'm sure I can say the same for you."

"Yeah, no. They promoted me because I'm super good with explosives. But that's only because Lord Tubbington used to make his own fireworks and I had to make sure he didn't kill himself all the time. It's a good thing he has nine lives because I'm pretty sure he's already lost, like, six of them."

Blaine's eyebrows rise as the Lieutenant prattles on but Santana just listens, transfixed. "Well," he says, interrupting – gladly interrupting, "You will need a weapon so here," he says, handing over his handgun. "You can handle that right?"

Brittany pops open the chamber, counting the bullets before aiming at a crack in the wall a good forty feet away and embedding a slug into the space next to it without hesitation.

"I think she's good," Santana says while Blaine whistles lowly.

***o*O*o***

**The Marketplace**

**Bakhtyara, Afghanistan**

**2300 hours**

"Look man," Azimio says, his loud and boisterous voice carrying over the din of the group of people, "I'm not trying to cause a problem but someone here ordered this Kofta and someone is going to get this Kofta!"

He's in the middle of a marketplace, crowded still for this time of night, but that's because most of the illegal trading that happened around these parts takes place at this time.

This time is also when the insurgents are on high alert, perched on the tops of low-rising buildings and darkened doorways.

The man he's arguing with looks bewildered and also afraid because Azimio is drawing much too much attention to him.

And that's precisely what Azimio is trying to do.

"Listen," the man implores, his eyes shifting from one rooftop to another, "My friend. I did not order this dish from you. I apologize for your inconvenience but I think you have been mistaken."

"I think I'm gonna break my foot off in your ass if I don't get my money!" Azimio threatens, looking menacing.

Quinn slowly slithers along the gravel coated rooftop, her muscles working to make as little noise as possible.

The two men before her are distracted, machine guns pointed down as they peer into the darkened street where Azimio is keeping up the ruckus.

The perfect decoy.

In a two second blitz, the men are flat on their backs – threats no more – and she and Puck keep low, her only movement to flash a mirror down toward the street.

Azimio doesn't let on that he sees it, the glare from the mirror, but he suddenly throws up his hands. "Fine. You don't want to pay me, that's fine. But you will be hearing from my company _my friend_," he says, turning and hulking away, hopping into the van he'd driven into the crowded streets.

Matt crouches down low in the back, his rifle still trained out of the hidden fire hole a.k.a. gas tank. "So I take it you're a multicultural pain in the ass," he chuckles, unblinking as he stays his weapon on the guy on the roof still aiming at Azimio.

"Whatever," Azimio grumbles, backing out slowly.

There are people everywhere and they don't understand the concept of moving vehicle apparently. "I hope those fuckers made it in because I'm not dealing with another cheap asshole. This shit smells good," he says, eyeing the bag of food. "I'd have paid for it."

***o*O*o***

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**2300 hours**

"Can we…can we stop? Just for a minute?" Brittany breathes, her back pressed up against one of the dingy crumbling walls.

Santana figures they'd been walking for about half an hour at most but Brittany's been struggling, obviously being held captive has made her a little weaker.

Blaine surveys the area – the underground chamber had opened up and widened into a dirt ramp leading them to where they were now, a seemingly deserted shanty town – before excusing himself to relieve himself and Santana sidles up alongside Brittany.

"Are you okay?"

Brittany blinks her eyes open, catching Santana's eyes. "I'm really tired. Like, post-Thanksgiving dinner tired."

"It's totally understandable," Santana says. "I mean, do you know how long they held you captive for?"

Brittany shakes her head. "It's all a blur."

"What about your unit?" Santana asks hesitantly.

Brittany looks away for a moment before shaking her head solemnly and Santana understands immediately.

She moves a little closer to Brittany, lowering her voice as Blaine returns. "They didn't…_do_ anything to you, did they?"

Brittany looks back to her, chin quivering. Then her eyes glaze over, remembering. "They tried. Well, one guy did. I fought him off though. That's what this bruise is all about," she says quietly, absently tracing over the purple mark on her upper arm.

Brittany blinks, takes in the way Santana's looking at her. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

Brittany chances a glance at Blaine who's trying for the entire world to look like he's not listening. "Don't look at me like you pity me or something."

"I'm not," Santana rushes to say.

"You are and I don't need your pity. I'm a Lieutenant in this army, too," Brittany informs her, moving away.

"I know you are," Santana snaps, grabbing the blonde's wrist before she can get too far. "I know you are. I'm sorry. I just…"

"You just what?"

_I'm just so pissed this had to happen to _you_, _Santana thinks. And it's completely absurd but she _does_ feel that way.

"I don't pity you Brittany," Santana says calmly, taking one long breath and releasing it. "I admire you."

Santana's not sure what she's expecting Brittany's response to be and she waits nervously as Brittany's frown melts away, replaced by a wide grin that just stretches wider and wider and wider…

"Really?" Brittany asks, eyes bright and hopeful and Santana – even though they're in the middle of a war zone – can't help but smile back just as wide.

"Yeah," she nods, jumping a little when Brittany lunges for her suddenly, wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug.

Blaine does his best to hide his smile.

***o*O*o***

Puck kisses his knuckles before letting them land perfectly square against their captive's jaw.

"Fuck," he semi-laughs, shaking his hand, "That one kinda hurt."

They're in a small hut house, Quinn playing lookout while Sam and Puck take turns "interrogating the witness".

Hassan – the insurgent they'd picked up – spits out a mouthful of blood, staring menacingly up at the two of them. "You can hit me all you want. It won't change what is in my mind. I do not know where your captain is."

"Listen Hassan," Puck says, smirking dryly, "I'm calling bullshit on this one. An American convoy gets blowed up in _your_ neck of the woods and you know nothing? Do I _look_ like an idiot?"

Hassan smiles evilly. "Well, how do you Americans say? If the shoe fits…"

"Oh for crying out loud. Watch the door," Quinn grumbles, handing her rifle over to Sam before strutting over, pulling out her handgun.

She aims it for Hassan's head. "Tell us what we want to know," she says evenly, finger itching on the trigger.

"What is this?" Hassan says, looking to Puck. "I'm not addressing this _woman_."

Quinn moves her hand, placing the gun directly over Hassan's thigh and pulling the trigger, the loud bang resonating immediately around the cramped place.

Hassan starts cursing – in English and Arabic – and Puck curses too. "Shit Fabray. A little warning next time."

"Sorry," Quinn smirks, aiming the gun a little higher, like, right at the apex of Hassan's thighs.

"Now, tell us what we want to know," she starts, cocking back the trigger, "Or I'll blast your balls into oblivion."

***o*O*o***

They're making good time, or rather, they would be if Santana knew where they were going.

She's trusting Blaine completely when it comes to direction because that guy has some serious memory recall. He's like Rain Man when it comes to maps.

"He's cute," Brittany states suddenly, trudging along beside her.

Santana almost trips, but regains her footing before Brittany can notice, she hopes. Her eyes cut to Blaine who's a good five or six paces ahead of them, oblivious.

"He's okay," Santana replies.

"You don't think he's cute?"

Brittany's voice is weird, timid almost, like she's fishing for something.

Santana shrugs. "He's okay," she repeats.

"Well I think he's cute. Sexy even," Brittany says and Santana stops, her face scrunching up into something like a scowl mixed with disgust.

"You _do_?"

"Ha," Brittany laughs. "No. I just wanted to see what your reaction would be."

Santana frowns at that, not knowing how to take that information. "Whatever," she grumbles.

"He's actually not my type," Brittany says, ignoring Santana's temporary funk.

Santana swallows. "What is your type?"

Brittany shrugs, looking straight ahead as she marches onward beside Santana. "Dark hair, dark eyes…boobs."

Santana gasps and lets loose a shocked laugh, turning wide eyes on Brittany. "What?"

"You heard me," Brittany says cutely, fixing Santana with a pointed look so intense she swears it burns.

"Santana!" Blaine calls out, too late almost, but they react in time, parting just as the single bullet cut the air between them.

It grazes Brittany's shoulder and she drops to the ground, clutching the wound.

"Shit," Santana curses, crouching down next to her. "You okay?"

"Just a stinger," Brittany grits out, pulling her bloodied hand away. "I'm fine."

"Shot came from over there," Blaine hisses, pointing in the distance, already army crawling over.

Santana nods before pushing Brittany to the ground. "Stay here," she hisses.

"Santana, I'm not invalid," Brittany says, pushing her hands away and Santana smiles even in the inopportune moment at the small, unintentional verbal gaffe.

"I know you're not an invalid, but you're hurt. Just stay here until Blaine and I check it out."

Brittany frowns. "I'm not hurt."

Santana touches her shoulder and Brittany cries out, pouting. "Maybe a little bit."

"I'll be right back," Santana assures her, sharing one long look before taking off in the direction Blaine went.

***o*O*o***

**Bagram Airfield**

**Kabul Afghanistan**

**200 hours**

Karofsky looks up when Captain Chang enters his quarters, eyes hopeful.

"Any word?"

"Nothing, Sir."

Karofsky picks up the letterhead on his desk, the message already typed and ready to be delivered:

_General Susan B. Sylvester,_

_I regret to inform you that Operation Flying Eagle has failed. Lieutenant Santana Lopez, Sergeant Blaine Anderson, Corporal Quinn Fabray, Private First Class Samuel Evans and Privates Noah Puckerman, Matthew Rutherford, and Azimio Adams are missing in action and presumed dead._

_Sincerely,_

_Lieutenant Colonel_ _David R. Karofsky_

Shakily, he hands the letter over to his Captain. "Have this sent to Washington first thing in the morning."

"Yes, Sir," Mike says, accepting the letter with a tight nod.

***o*O*o***

**Somewhere in Afghanistan**

**200 hours**

"Don't move! Don't move or I will shoot him!"

Santana surveys the scene.

There are only the three of them in the dark clearing, but she can hear sounds in the distance.

Gunfire.

Laughter.

The combination is somewhat sickening.

The man has his rifle held to Blaine's face, nary a breath of space between Blaine's temple and the nozzle of the weapon.

"Give me your gun!" the man yells. "Give it to me."

"No, Lieutenant! Don't!" Blaine yells, absorbing a blow to his mouth in retaliation.

He crumbles, grabbing his face as he goes to a knee, the insurgent turning the rifle to the back of his head.

"Fuck, no!" Santana yells, turning her gun up in submission. "Fuck. Fine. Here," she implores, dropping the weapon to the floor, her chest heaving with the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Take it, just…don't kill him. Please?" she begs, actually feeling the sting of tears dotting her eyes.

She kicks her gun across the brush, sighing in relief when the man turns his weapon away from Blaine.

"You're such a stupid little girl," the man sneers, turning it on her instead and as the bullets ring out, Santana closes her eyes and finds the image of bright blue ones staring right back at her.

It's startling.

Also startling, the force with which someone is throwing her to the ground.

She opens her eyes just in time to see the man who was just holding her hostage flail backwards, three small holes seeping dark liquid down the front of his shirt.

She blinks, pushing herself up to watch him fall to the ground while Brittany stands over him, letting off round after round after round, her teeth bared in an almost animal-like snarl.

"Brittany," she says, finding her voice after several moments and several bullets. "Brittany, stop." She grabs for Brittany's arm, slowly but surely coaxing the other woman to stop firing. "He's done."

"He…" Brittany whispers, the quiet after the onslaught almost dreadfully eerie, "He was gonna…he tried to…"

Santana gets what she's trying to say. "I'm fine," she nods, forcibly turning Brittany's body away from the dead man. "We're all…fine. Well, I mean, Blaine's mouth probably hurts like hell right now but…"

Blaine moans, rotating his jaw before looking up at them wryly. "Yeah. Last time I take a hit for your- " he trails off, eyes widening almost comically before running full sprint at them, knocking them down to the floor, his body following after.

"The hell, Blaine?" Santana grunts, using all of her remaining strength to push his heavy weight off of them. "You don't just go…" she trails off when she realizes that Blaine's not speaking, in fact, it looks like he's having a difficult time breathing.

"Blaine?"

She sits up, reaching an arm around him and gasps when all she feels is wet.

Warm and sticky wet.

It's only then that the sharp iron smell registers and Blaine settles back down against the ground, his eyes opening and closing slowly before he finally coughs, expelling way too much blood for someone who's only been hit in the mouth.

Brittany inhales sharply, crawling on her hands and knees to get on the other side of him and Santana just stares, disbelieving.

He took a bullet for her.

He took a bullet for them.

Blaine is going to die for her and Brittany.

"Blaine?" Brittany echoes her, one of her hands moving to cradle his head. "Blaine, come on. You're okay, alright? You're okay."`

Santana wishes that were true.

She really does.

But she knows better.

"San, tell him to get up. Command him. Go on," Brittany cries and Santana swallows down the knot in her throat, meeting Blaine's gaze.

"I'm done, Lieutenant," he manages to whisper, his eyes opening and closing with less frequency now.

"Damn it, Blaine. I told you. Call me Santana," she murmurs, chin quivering. "You_ never_ listen to me. I always told you to save the hero G.I. Joe shit for the movies-"

"Santana," Blaine croaks out, coughing up a little more blood.

It's thick.

Clotted.

"I need you to do something for me," he groans, reaching a hand up and ducking his fingers just under his shirt collar. He tugs firmly, his dog tags clasped in the center of his palm.

He holds his hand out to Santana, pressing the warm pieces of metal into her hand. "I need you to get this to Kurt Hummel in…in Lima, Ohio. I need you to tell him that…that I love him. And that I will love him forever and I was never ashamed. Never," he whispers brokenly, straining to be heard. "Can you do that for me?"

Santana grasps his hand tighter, nodding even as she feels hot tears spill over onto her cheeks.

"Promise me," he implores, hanging on just to hear her say the words.

"I promise," she whispers, watching the light go out of his eyes.

Brittany turns away, silently sobbing, and Santana reaches up to gently close his eyelids.

She pockets his tags and takes a deep breath before standing on legs that feel much too numb to support her.

"He's so young," Brittany whispers, lying his head back down slowly. She moves to stand next to Santana, her shoulder distractedly brushing against the other woman's. "And so brave," she adds. "Do you think Kurt is his boyfriend?"

_Was_, Santana thinks and then she steels herself, shaking the thoughts.

"Come on Brittany," Santana says, holding her arm out to her. "We've got to get going. It's almost sunrise."

Brittany sighs heavily, rotating her shoulders before bypassing Santana's elbow, sliding her long fingers down Santana's arm until she's clasping her hand – her trembling hand.

Brittany wants to say something, it's written all over her face. She wants to say something, _anything_, to make Santana feel better. But she's struggling; that much is apparent too.

"You know," Brittany starts, staring into the darkness, "I've always wanted to go back to Ohio."

Santana's hand is sweaty and clammy she's sure, and she knows for a fact it's still coated in blood but Brittany still holds on, doesn't falter.

It's enough to make her almost want to smile.

***o*O*o***

"God, these shanty town houses are so dirty, man," Puck grumbles, brushing the cobwebs off of his face frantically. "Haven't they ever heard of a dustbuster?"

"Shut it, Puckerman," Sam barks quietly, holding his rifle at the ready.

According to the information they'd wrangled out of their temporary hostage, they should be coming upon the major complex now and, judging by the noises he hears in the distance, they were not misinformed.

"Okay, we're winging it now."

"We've been winging it for about three hours; what else is new?" Quinn grumbles, feeling jittery. She's a little out of sorts from being shot at constantly.

Sam lets it slide. "This place is going to be crawling with the enemy. Stay invisible. Stay alert. And only react if there's no other way around it. I'd hate to get all the way here and go out in a bloodbath."

"Sweet," Puck grins, advancing a half-step behind Sam, eyes surveying their landscape. "I've always wanted to go out guns-a-blazing."

"You're such a dude," Quinn says, walking backwards and watching behind them.

"No," Puck corrects, flexing a little, "I'm a stud."

"I can't wait until we find Lieutenant so you two can finally fucking get it on," Sam mutters, surprising the both of them.

"What?" Quinn squeals, offended. "I don't like _him_."

Puck chuckles cockily. "_Yeah_ you do."

"Hey, whoa, shut up. I think I hear something," Sam hisses, peering into the darkness.

Quinn widens rank, flanking Puck on his left-hand side. "So you want it on the bottom?" he murmurs through a grin. "Nah, you look like a top type of girl, Corporal."

Quinn's retaliation blow is immediate.

***o*O*o***

"Hang on," Santana says; using an arm-bar to halt Brittany's progress, "I know that girly little shriek."

She nods Brittany into back-up position, guns aimed into the shadows.

"Hey!" she semi-yells into the darkness. "Show yourselves and keep your hands where I can see 'em or you'll be slurping the rest of your meals through a straw."

Brittany gives her a wry look that just screams "_Really_?"

Santana shrugs. "I'm working on like, zero sleep here."

Before she's ready for it, someone comes shooting out of the shadows, shrieking.

***o*O*o***

Sam yells as he runs straight for her. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Puck screams.

Brittany screams.

And Santana "oofs" when her butt makes contact with the ground, Sam following right behind her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

"Brittany," Santana manages when Brittany's gun swings in her direction. "Hold your fire. He's with me."

Brittany's looks is an odd one, her lower lips puffing out just a little. "He's _with_ you, with you or just, you know, with you?"

Santana frowns, her stomach tightening a bit as Sam starts sobbing into her neck.

"Oh my God," Sam rambles, voice sounding weepy. "I'm so glad you're okay. We thought you were dead. And then Karofsky told us to leave you but he didn't really mean it and then they put me in charge and Azimio's an annoying motherfucker – did you know that? – and Quinn and Puck are like two seconds away from going half on a baby and I'm just so _happy_. _We_. _Found_. _You_."

"I take it back, Britt. You can shoot him," Santana grumbles, forcing Sam off of her but grinning so that Brittany gets she's only kidding.

Puck pulls her up with one hand. "Good to see you Lieutenant."

"Puckerman. Did I hear something about you and…Fabray?"

"You should know, Lieutenant, that during our mission they've both experienced some head trauma," Quinn says, stepping into the clearing. "_Massive _head trauma."

Puck shrugs, glancing over his shoulder and taking notice of Brittany standing there out of sorts. "Um, Lieutenant? Where's Blaine?" he asks warily. "And who's blondie?"

Santana breathes deeply, squaring her shoulders and hardening her eyes. "Sergeant Anderson was killed in combat. This," she adds, gesturing towards Brittany, "is Lieutenant Brittany S. Pierce. Lieutenant Pierce meet Privates Puckerman and Evans and Corporal Fabray."

"Shit," Puck curses, straightening up immediately and saluting her. "Sorry Lieutenant Blondie…I mean, Pierce. I didn't realize-"

Sam looks stricken. "Blaine's…dead?"

Puck kicks a clump of dirt away, glancing away solemnly and Quinn swallows thickly, subtly shifting a little closer to him.

"Sergeant Anderson died serving his country," Santana states clearly, voice never wavering. "Let's do our best to make sure his efforts will not be in vain. Now, think. We're in the middle of this fuck town surrounded by crazies who want to dead us. How can we get out of here?"

"I've got Adams and Rutherford meeting us at the rendezvous point at 0300 hours," Sam informs her, pointing westward. "It's approximately 600 meters in that direction. We can make it if we run. Problem is: this place is teeming with the bad guys."

"That's not a problem, per se…" Santana says. "We just need a distraction. A loud, explode-y distraction."

"Hand grenades?" Quinn offers.

Santana shakes her head. "Bigger."

"I've got eighty feet of wire," Puck volunteers.

Santana grins. "And I've got a Lieutenant with a background in explosives," she says, clapping Brittany on her good shoulder. "What do you say Britt? Think you can whip us up a 'boomer' real quick."

Brittany shrugs shyly. "I'll see what I can do." She turns to Puck. "Do you have any glitter? It's kind of my signature."

***o*O*o***

Brittany carefully pours the last of the explosive into the last hole in the ground.

There are seven others like it, aligned in a half-circle and about thirty feet in diameter. The fuse line runs from spot to spot before converging in the center and she runs the remaining line out a safe distance…well, at least she thinks.

"Okay," she breathes, holding the end of the line between her fingers. "Now I just need an igniter. Does anyone have a lighter? I had to toss out all of mine because of Lord Tubbington's Newport addiction."

Santana shifts uncomfortably under her unit's confused looks. "Lord Tubbington's her cat," she explains, somewhat defensively. "Okay, fork over the lighter Fabray. I know you gots one."

"_Alright_," Brittany says, grinning as she attempts to light the end of the fuse. "You guys are gonna want to start running. I'm not sure about my calculations."

"Wait, what?" Quinn asks, balking. "What…what are you saying?"

"I'm _saying_," Brittany sighs, still having trouble with the fuse, "I'm not sure if we're supposed to stand twenty or 200 feet away."

The end finally lights and her eyes brighten immediately. "There we go," she smiles, looking around at the oth- wait, where are the others?

"Britt, come on!" Santana yells, yanking on her wrist and tugging her into a full sprint.

***o*O*o***

"I'm telling you numb nuts," Matt says, hitting the middle of the console for emphasis, "Sam said for us to meet him right here."

"No, man," Azimio insists, hands gripping the steering wheel, "He said meet him by the mud-brick building with the red scarf awning."

Matt stares at him. "Azimio, they are _all_ mud-brick buildings with red-scarf awnings."

Azimio blinks, looking around. "Oh _yeah_," he drawls, huffing out an embarrassed little laugh. "My bad, bro."

***o*O*o***

So like, Brittany miscalculated.

A lot.

Well, it definitely was distracting.

Sam sits up, rifle resting against his lap and his hair sticking straight up on his head. "Are we alive?" he asks/yells, seeing Quinn stirring in front of him.

"What?" she yells back.

"Oww," Puck grunts, still lying flat on his face. "That fuckin' hurt."

Santana feels the pain first and then the ringing in her ears hits and then she realizes-

"Crap, I'm sorry," she mutters, pushing her body up and then crumbling back down immediately after. "I'll get off of you in a second. As soon as I stop seeing two of everything."

"Those are my boobs. You're supposed to see two of them," Brittany responds playfully, peering down to look at her. She brushes her fingers along Santana's brow, smoothing away the strands of hair. "Are you okay?"

Santana smiles. "I can feel everything so I can't complain."

Brittany smiles but it fades quickly and then she's biting her lower lip worriedly.

Santana's stomach drops.

"Santana, can I…" she starts, trailing off momentarily, "I…I have to ask you something."

Santana's heart is beating in her throat for an entirely different reason now. "Go ahead."

"When we get back to base," Brittany continues. "I'll ask when we get back to base."

"Okay," Santana nods, finally getting up off the other woman.

"Uh, Lieutenant?" Puck calls, staring back into the fiery distance. "Didn't the plan involve running of some sort? 'Cause, I think we should start doing that, like, now."

Santana turns quickly, taking the snapshot in her mind like she was trained to do, and spies dozens of insurgents, yelling, flailing and coming their way – their white over-clothes contrasting completely with the waning darkness.

Needless to say, Santana did not have to give the order to run.

***o*O*o***

".fuck?" Azimio says, cigarette hanging from his lips as he stares in awe at the area suddenly coming to life.

He and Matt had heard the explosion and since then their eyes had been scouring the distance – looking for any signs of trouble.

But now, with about a hundred rebels hurtling full speed ahead towards them, he thinks trouble may have found them.

"Wait," Matt says, squinting. "Is that them?"

Azimio's head swivels to where he's pointing and sure enough he can make out Sam's gangly running stride and Quinn's laser-line sprint. They've got about twenty yards distance between them and the bad guys and it looks like the bad guys are gaining.

"Oh shit," he says, turning the key in the ignition. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

He puts the van in reverse, quickly turning the vehicle down the dirt path, stomping on the gas. Matt scrambles back into the hatch, wasting no time in kicking open the back double door. He hooks his cinch belt into one of the van's moorings.

"I've always wanted to use this thing," he grins, reaching over for the grenade launcher.

***o*O*o***

Santana's keeping pace with Brittany but they're both lagging behind the others, Brittany's malnutrition and Santana's fatigue starting to become a factor.

"There they are!" Sam yells suddenly and Santana's head turns, spotting a vehicle speeding along in the distance.

She's praying to whatever deity she believes in – she's not sure at the moment – that they don't drive too close to where they are. Because then it'll just be target practice.

"I can't…"Brittany pants, slowing just a little but enough that Santana notices, "I can't…do it. So tired."

"Yes you can, Brittany," Santana almost growls, never breaking stride as she reaches for Brittany's hand. "You can. There's no such thing as can't in this army."

But sometimes willpower and adrenaline alone are not enough. Sometimes you really need more than that. So when Brittany stumbles, Santana's there, hiking her up again.

She drapes Brittany's arm around her shoulder, using what remaining strength she has to keep them moving.

"Incoming!" Quinn yells from ahead of them, and Santana watches a line of smoke streak across the lightening sky a half second before the explosion sounds, the ground shaking unsteadily beneath them.

They're really close to the action.

"The fuck?" Puck squeals, slowing a little. "Is that dickwad shooting at us?"

"He's shooting behind us, now keep going!" Santana yells, concentrating on keeping one foot in front of the next.

They can't afford to stumble again.

***o*O*o***

Matt grins, loading up another grenade quickly. "This thing is so awesome."

"How the hell did I get stuck driving?" Azimio grumbles, working the stick shift with the grace of a grizzly bear. "I hate this crappy ass van!"

"Hey, slow up a little," Matt says, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he takes aim, "I've got the perfect shot…"

"Bingo," he whispers, pulling the trigger.

***o*O*o***

"Yo!" Puck yells, hoisting himself up into the cargo, "That last one was a little too close for comfort, Rutherford."

"Psh," Matt dismisses, helping Quinn aboard the still moving vehicle, "You still got all of your limbs, Puckerman. You're fine."

Next is Sam, his chest heaving heavily as he climbs aboard, then reaches a hand down to help Santana pull Brittany up.

At long last, Santana clamors aboard, falling flat onto her back as soon as she does.

"Azimio," she says quietly.

"Lieutenant."

"If I die because your ass can't get us out of fourth gear I will kill you."

Sam shuffles up front, shifting the gear stick and immediately the van lurches forward, Azimio's foot heavy on the gas.

"Thank you," she breathes out, sitting up again. Her body is humming with adrenaline and the surge coursing through her now, forces her into head-bitch mode.

"How's the tank looking Azimio?"

"We're good, Lieutenant," he yells back, "This should get us back to base easy."

"Evans, you navigate," she barks at Sam, crawling over on her knees to the side of the van and grabbing a loaded rifle off of the wall. "Fabray, Rutherford, and Puckerman, you keep those crazy bastards off our asses."

Santana moves to join them at the rear of the hatch, after all, a leader leads by their actions more than their words, but a petite hand wraps around the ankle of her boot, halting her.

"What…" Brittany rasps, breathing heavily as she leans up against the side of the van. "What do you want me to do?" she somehow manages to ask.

"You stay here," Santana says, kneeling beside her. "Get some rest. I'll get us back."

"Thank you, Santana," Brittany says, swallowing against a much too dry throat. "Thank you for everything."

***o*O*o***

"Wait, you've been driving east this whole time?" Sam asks suddenly, loudly.

The action has died down somewhat, what with them being in a souped up camouflaged military van and all, but there's still the threat of being blown to bits lingering around, and for that reason alone, they forge onward without rest.

"Yeah," Azimio replies, shrugging. "Isn't that where I'm supposed to be headed?"

"The base is west!" Sam shrieks, throttling him with a map. "West! W-e-s-t. As in opposite of east!"

"Or like, Kanye," Brittany adds, slowly regaining color.

"My bad, dude," Azimio says, seemingly unperturbed by the whole thing and Sam just erupts, fisting his hair to refrain from killing him.

"Calm down, Evans," Matt speaks up, taking a break from shooting for a moment. "We're not going to base. Well, not _our_ base."

"Where the hell are we going then?" Santana asks, incredulous. She rounds on Matt. "My direct orders were to take us to base soldier!"

"We are going to base, Lieutenant," Matt assures her, keeping his face stoic. "Hers," he adds, nodding discreetly at Brittany's.

Lo and behold, a chain link perimeter appears in the distance, rising up out of the landscape like some silver, sparkling – well, prison fence. Shit is still kinda depressing but at least it's grade A U.S.A. soil, even if only by name and claim.

"Shit," Azimio curses, letting up on the gas when he sees a few fully attired soldiers standing at attention and aiming their rifles at the van, "How are they gonna know not to shoot us?"

"They're not, pendejo," Santana says, scooting over to Brittany. "Keep driving."

Brittany smiles when she sees her, "Hey."

"Hey," Santana smiles back, momentarily forgetting herself. She shakes her head to gather her thoughts. "I think we're gonna need you."

***o*O*o***

Private Motta is shaking in her combat boots when the van crashes into the perimeter fencing, slowing to a stop just a moment thereafter.

They've been commanded to hold their fire and her eyes flit back and forth between her superiors and the van as she waits, finger trembling as it rests upon the trigger.

The van's back doors are swinging with the van's halted momentum and she shakes even harder when a woman wearing army apparel jumps down, hands in the air.

She's saying something but from the distance – and with her heartbeat sounding in her ears – Sugar can't quite make out what it is.

Her superiors just shout right back and it's one confusing mess – Sugar's so unsure of what to do, but then the woman, her eyes flashing as she literally snarls at Sugar's commander, holds her hand up to the van and another woman, tall, blonde, and wincing visibly as she hops out of the van with the assistance of the other woman.

It's only then that it clicks.

"Brittany!" she yells aloud, then covers her mouth immediately after. She was never really good at not speaking out of turn.

"Sorry," she mutters, feeling everyone's eyes on her. "Asperger's."

"Lieutenant Pierce?" her commanding officer asks, stepping forward slightly and assessing the woman for himself before breaking out into a smile. "Oh my God, it is you. Stand down soldiers! Get a medic team out here! Transport! Lieutenant Pierce is back!"

***o*O*o***

It had felt so damn good to take a shower, change uniforms, eat those damn powdered eggs, but this? _This _she could definitely do without.

Karofsky's pacing before them, Captain Chang standing just behind him, face like stone.

She stands in front of her unit and for the first time in a long time, no one's flanking her right hand side.

Her chest feels heavy almost immediately when the realization of what has taken place hammers home again and the dog tags in her pocket seemingly burn against her leg.

"I don't know what to even say to you," Karofsky starts quietly, shaking his head. "You've got one hell of a team, Lopez. A brave, skilled, orders-breaking team. I should have you all sent back to Washington this very instant. When orders are set they are to be followed and when they're not followed, people _die_."

Santana can feel their eyes boring into the back of her neck. She can feel Sam's disappointment, Quinn's sadness. She can hear the words 'They failed….I failed' ringing in her ears.

Karofsky stops pacing, opting to stand right in front of her and looking her directly in the eye.

"This is war ladies and gentlemen. It's time you started treating it as such," he says, the anger on his face almost palpable but then he winks.

It happens so quickly and he gives no other indication that he's _not_ pissed that Santana almost doesn't believe it happened. And just as quickly, he's back out of her face, and putting his hat back on.

"Dismissed," he says, leaving without as much as another glance.

When he's finally gone, Mike slips forward, a small smile on his face. "You guys are gonna be fuckin' heroes. And Sergeant Anderson," he adds, breaking his stoic demeanor. "I've never been more proud to serve as I am right now, serving alongside you, Lieutenant."

Mike holds out his hand and Santana takes it, pumping it once. "Thank you, Captain."

***o*O*o***

**Washington D.C. **

**United States of America**

**1600 hours**

"It isn't often," President Obama starts, pausing for the camera flashes, "that a soldier performs so admirably, exceeds expectations and limitations, and prevails in spite of the direst of circumstances. It's even rarer that several soldiers meet these qualifications. So, I guess what we have today is a rare event."

Santana lets the words drift away, and even though this is the proudest moment of her life – heck, the President's about to present her with the Medal of Honor – she can't help but feel just a little short of full inside.

She'd lost two of her men, paralyzed another, and while those things really weren't any real fault of her own, as Lieutenant – as their _leader_ – she still feels responsible.

Still, she is here, and there are six very real reminders that she _is_ good at what she does – including a really cute blonde one who's currently waving her fingers at her.

Santana waves back, albeit a lot more discreetly, feeling her cheeks warm.

After all, she still remembers the last conversation she had with Brittany…

_She's not a big fan of hospitals and the medic hutch is as close as you can get to a hospital on a military base so she's not a big fan of those either._

_But, Brittany's here, still, and she wants to see for herself – not via a ten word telegram to her superior – that the blonde is okay._

_The flowers are like, just a technicality or whatever._

_She strolls past numerous cots, eyes lingering on soldiers with bandaged stumps and she's reminded, yet again, at how lucky she is._

_How grateful she should be._

_She hears Brittany before she sees her - the blonde lieutenant going on and on about…Jell-o it sounds like and Santana cannot keep the smile off of her face._

"_Hey, can I come in?" she asks, ducking her head around the brown tarp, and she fists the makeshift bouquet of dandelions a little tighter when Brittany's eyes light up in recognition._

"_Santana," she says happily, sitting up a little on the cot. She pats the foot of her bed in invitation and Santana hesitates for a second, her eyes darting over to the other person in the room._

"_I'm gonna go now, Brittany," the nurse says, patting her leg gently. "I'll see if I can find you some more jello."_

"_Yay," Brittany mock cheers, following the nurse out with her eyes before turning her attention back to Santana. "Are those for me?" she asks, nodding toward the flowers in Santana's hand._

"_Yeah," Santana says, swallowing nervously. "I'm sorry about how crappy they are. I mean, they're not crappy. It's just…technically I think they're weeds-"_

"_Santana," Brittany interrupts, sounding amused, "Santana, stop. Thank you. For the flowers." _

_Brittany reaches out to take them from her and sits them beside her, shifting slightly to allow Santana room._

"_So, how are you doing?" she asks her, her gaze traveling from her clasped hands in her lap to Brittany's face and back._

"_Much better. My daily treatment of double jello doses and sour patch kids is making me nice and strong. I'm gonna have a wicked scar, though," she adds, smirking grandly. "Wanna see it?" she grins, already reaching for the hem of her shirt._

"_That's okay, Britt," Santana laughs, holding a hand out to halt her._

_Brittany stops but she grabs Santana's hand, walking her fingers over her wrist and turning it over so that Santana's palm is up. "Do you remember…how I wanted to ask you a question? You know, out there?"_

_Santana remembers all too well, her skyrocketing pulse proves as much._

_She nods._

"_Can I ask you now?"_

_Santana nods again, her eyes trained on Brittany's hand wrapping around her own. _

"_Well," Brittany starts, her voice lilting cutely, almost lyrically, "I was wondering if maybe when you're done with your tour and I'm done with my tour if we can't like, go out some time?"_

_Santana wants that._

_She actually pretty much wants that more than anything, but, given the military's stance on gays and the fact that she actually wants to continue her career poses quite the obstacle._

_Brittany seems to sense the apprehension in Santana's eyes. "Don't worry. I keep secrets so good. Like, one time, my friend Tina told me that she actually wasn't even Asian. She just squinted her eyes too hard and they got stuck that way. True facts. You didn't hear that from me though."_

_Santana giggles – like actual Ernie from _Sesame Street_ giggles – at that. "You are something else, Britt."_

"_I know," Brittany grins, squeezing her hand. "So what do you say? Me, you, Breadstix at 8?"_

"_Yes," Santana says quietly, nodding twice. "I say yes."_

That date, commences as soon as this thing is over and now that Artie has his Purple Heart and Quinn, Matt, Puck, and Sam have received their Distinguished Service Crosses, she's two more awards away from that.

Right now, she's not exactly sure which one she's more excited about.

"It gives me the greatest pride and the utmost respect to present you, Lieutenant Brittany S. Pierce and you, Lieutenant Santana G. Lopez with our nation's military's highest award: the Medal of Honor."

Santana looks on as President Obama slips the medal around Brittany's head, shaking her hand afterward and posing for a picture. Brittany mumbles something into the man's ear that has him looking at Santana and smiling warmly.

When it's her turn she sees this twinkle in his eye that unnerves her. She's stiff as she shakes his hand and even more so when he leans in to whisper into her ear. "Your friend, Lieutenant Pierce, thought you might like to know, but I'm about ten days away from repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell," he tells her through a bright smile.

"What?" Santana asks before she thinks, her throat dry.

The President laughs, clapping her on the shoulder as they pose for another picture. "You should follow politics more closely, Lieutenant."

***o*O*o***

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You look great."

"You look…" Brittany's eyes get stuck on her cleavage, "…hot."

Santana snorts, laughing grandly. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Brittany sighs, leaning back against her chair, "You should definitely ditch the uniform more often."

"Britta_ny_," Santana lightly chastises, toying with the edge of her napkin as she fights off a blush.

"What?" Brittany asks playfully, knowing smirk painted across her face.

"Never mind," Santana murmurs, picking up the menu. "So, what's good here?"

"What's not?" Brittany responds, delving into her own menu.

Santana looks at the extravagant dishes spelled out in script on the elegant menu and suddenly nothing looks that appealing.

Putting her menu down, she catches Brittany's blue eyes scanning the same pages, her face a little less than enthusiastic.

"Look, Brittany this date was an excellent idea and this is a nice place-"

"But you could totally go for a burger and fries right now?" Brittany guesses, grinning widely when Santana nods. "Totally read my mind," she says, standing quickly and holding her hand out for the other woman. "Let's get the hell out of here."

***o*O*o***

"God," Brittany groans, speaking around a mouthful of fries, "I missed ketchup so bad."

Santana watches transfixed as the blonde brings her index finger to her mouth, sucking the remnants of the condiment off of it.

They'd settled for some burgers from a grease-joint and an evening stroll. Quite the downgrade from a four-star restaurant but Santana had no complaints. Especially what with the way Brittany's making ketchup seem like some kind of aphrodisiac.

"I can see that," she states, clearing her throat.

Brittany smirks, using her free hand to brush along Santana's uncovered arm. "What about you? What did you miss?"

Santana shrugs, mulling it over. "Not much," she finally answers, sipping from her can of diet coke.

"What about sex?"

She chokes on the coke, side-eyeing Brittany when she finally clears the liquid from her airway. "Well, yeah. There's that."

"I missed sex," Brittany says, oddly contemplative. "A lot actually. I'm good at it, you know?"

There's a challenge there, in Brittany's eyes. She's baited the hook and she's just dangling it, waiting to see if Santana's willing to take a bite.

…

Santana's awfully hungry, so to speak.

"Oh yeah?" Santana questions.

"Yeah," Brittany nods, matter-of-factly. "Really, _really_ good."

"How good?"

"Well," Brittany says, moving to stand directly in front of her, "There's only one way to find out."

***o*O*o***

"Shit," Santana curses, body shuddering somewhat violently.

Brittany hovers above her, eyes open and amused as they stare down at her. "Good right?" she asks in a whisper, scissoring her fingers in a way that's deliciously painful.

"Fuck," Santana groans, head rising off of the pillow and then back down again immediately.

It took about ten minutes to get back to their hotel and less time than that to get naked and by now – round four or five, she's totally lost track – Santana's about ready to pass out.

And she would if Brittany'd let up for a minute.

"God," Brittany murmurs, her head dropping to leave a trail of wet, burning kisses along Santana's exposed collarbone, "You feel so good."

"Damn."

Brittany giggles into the skin of her neck, raising up again. "And you're such a potty mouth. Don't you know any other four letter words?"

It's a question. One that she's seemingly intent on not letting Santana answer because if she thinks Santana can speak _while_ she's speed thrusting her fingers into her, she's sorely mistaken.

And Brittany's really _so _good at this sex thing.

But…while this feels amazing – understatement – it's Santana's turn damn it and she's totally going to fuck Brittany senseless before the after-orgasm sleepies kick in all the way.

Using every ounce of willpower she has, Santana's squeezes her thighs together, trapping Brittany's wrist and ceasing her movements and before the blonde can even question her intentions, she's flipping them over, Brittany's fingers still ensconced in her sex.

"What are you-" Brittany asks, perplexed as Santana pulls her hand away almost reverently.

Santana smirks. "It's my turn," she murmurs, full lips spread into a cute, wide grin.

It's almost too cute for the moment but then it slips into something more sinister and Santana winks deviously, dropping her mouth down and kissing a burning path down Brittany's body, pausing only to leave the most amazing 'feel better' kiss to Brittany's quickly healing scar.

Her lips quirk up as she settles between Brittany's legs, eyes finding smoky blue ones gazing intently at her, as the thighs she's gripping softly onto tremble a little. "You're really good at sex Britt," she starts, her breath hot against Brittany, making her squirm a little.

Brittany's eyes narrow and she gulps, a flash of understanding crossing her features as she finally gets what Santana's look is about.

"…But I may be a little better," she finishes, diving right in literally and figuratively.

It might take the whole night but she's going to fucking prove it if it's the last thing she does.

***o*O*o***

Santana perches on the window sill, her eyes trained on the National Mall and the monument jutting up into the sky.

The same monument she remembers staring at in awe at six when her Papa and family took a vacation here. He'd said, "_This was built for a great man, Santanita. A proud man, a brave man."_

She remembers thinking that it would be pretty cool if, like, when she was older and President of the Universe, everyone would build a giant Lego tower to commemorate her awesomeness.

But now, looking at it, an uncomfortable feeling settles into the pit of her stomach and she glances down at her tightly clasped fists, where Blaine's freshly cleaned dog tags are.

She'll meet with Kurt Hummel today.

She'll let go of the last physical reminder she has of the best friend she's ever known.

The thought is nothing short of overwhelming but then-

Then, strong arms are circling around her waist, and everything's a little bit brighter…and a lot more bearable.

"You're an early riser," Brittany mumbles into her hair, encouraging Santana to lean back against her.

"Force of habit," Santana says, gliding her hands along Brittany's exposed arms before settling them on top of hers.

Brittany fingers the cool metal in her hand. "I'll go with you," she says softly. "If you want."

Santana shifts and Brittany's arms loosen a little, enough that Santana can swivel around so that her back is pressed against the window pane. "You'd do that?"

Brittany smiles, reaching up to brush Santana's hair back, letting her hand linger on a warm cheek. She nods, "And then some, Santana. It's crazy how we came together but, now that I've found you…"

Brittany trails off, her voice going wispy and her eyes misting. She swallows thickly. "I'll go with you," she repeats.

It's not 'I love you'.

It's too soon for that, anyway.

And it's not even an 'I like you.'

But it's a start.

One Santana will gladly accept.

She smiles, slow, wide, and unbelievably true.

"Okay."


	32. Signed, Sealed, Delivered

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I'm still not entirely sure if what's happening right now is actually happening or if I've slipped into some alternate dimension because this week has been insanely good for Brittana shippers. So...I'm proceeding with caution. I hope everyone had a nice Valentine's Day. Thanks for continuing to read and review. And thanks to my Beta for helping to keep me on track.

* * *

><p><em>Uh oh<em>, she thinks, sorting through paperwork. _Here they come again._

Rachel and Quinn are her closest friends from work – and home to be perfectly honest – but they are really starting to get on her nerves.

"Hello Brittany," Quinn starts, watching her closer than a NASA enthusiast at a take-off, "Rachel and I just wanted to check-in with you; to see if you were doing okay?"

But really, what she meant was: "Thank goodness you made it through another day without throwing yourself off a cliff, you poor girl."

You see, Brittany's a recent divorcee and in their small suburban town of Akron, Ohio there were only two known tragedies: a severely distressed front lawn and a marriage that ends in divorce.

Brittany, though, doesn't see divorce as all bad. In fact, she considers it a good thing.

At least now she and Artie aren't throwing things at one another anymore.

Too bad she can't convince her friends of that.

"I'm fine," she insists, "Really, you guys. I am."

"Remember when Connie and Paul separated," Rachel starts, sharing a look with Quinn, "Child was in denial for months before she lopped off all her hair. We don't want you to cut your hair off, Brittany. You don't have the ears for it."

"Yeah," Brittany starts, grabbing a random file off of her desk. "I have to go make photocopies," she says. "Somewhere far away from here."

***o*O*o***

And it's not like she and Artie are even having a rough go at co-parenting.

She's got the house and the minivan – yes, they are _that_ suburban – and he's gotten an apartment and the handi-capable car so they're fine, she's fine and most importantly, Annabel is fine.

She's even fine when she's quietly chewing on the car keys Brittany's been looking for for the last half-hour.

"Why didn't you tell me you had these?" she asks the still non-speaking toddler, expecting an answer and getting back only spit bubbles.

"You're gonna spend the day with daddy and his friend," she coos to the little one, straightening out the little pink bow embedded in a head full of blonde curls.

Yes, Artie has started dating again.

No, Brittany doesn't mind.

Rachel and Quinn sure do, though.

_Rachel gasps and she grabs Quinn dramatically as she walks by. "Quinn, have you heard?"_

"_What?"_

"_Artie's dating another woman," Rachel tells her, eyes accusing, "A younger woman."_

_Brittany frowns, "She's like, one year younger than me."_

_Quinn places a hand on her chest, shaking her head, "That…_animal_."_

"_Don't you worry, Brittany," Rachel tells her, gripping onto the taller woman's shoulders, "We'll find you someone yet."_

"_Thanks?"_

_So, maybe it's time for some new friends._

Ding Dong.

"Hiya Britt," Artie says, letting himself in, "Is Jelly Bean ready to go with Papa?"

Annabel waddles over to him on unsteady legs, teething ring still clasped in tiny hands.

Brittany drapes the diaper bag over the back of his chair as Artie scoops the baby into his lap. She peeks out to the car where Artie's new girlfriend is ducked down low in the seat.

Rachel and Quinn are in the yard next door, glaring.

"Is your…friend not coming in?" Brittany asks him and Artie flushes visibly.

"She's pretty sure Rachel threw an egg at her the last time, so, no," he explains, "What are you doing today?"

Brittany shrugs, "I'll probably just catch up on some housework."

"That's it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Britt, I'm not trying to be mean or anything, I'm really not. But, you should get out more. Part of the reason we didn't work out I think is that we spent too much time in close quarters," Artie tells her kindly.

"I…don't really know anyone here. Aside from Rachel and Quinn and-"

"They're crazy," Artie supplies, nodding in agreement, "I know, but that's my point. Get out there. Explore the world. You might find someone new. The world's full of people you know."

***o*O*o***

So she takes Artie up on his offer.

Almost.

Well, sort of.

She does leave the house, but she ends up at Babies R' Us picking out some new outfits for Annabel.

She can't help it.

She's a mother.

She picks up a cute little tutu and smiles, even if a bit forlornly.

Giving up dancing is truly one of her biggest regrets.

"I know you're not expecting."

Brittany looks to her left, surprisingly unstartled by the unfamiliar voice and smiles reciprocally at the one she's being given.

"Maybe about a year ago," she answers politely, her eyes roving over the woman's shorter frame. "Are….you?" she asks.

"Nope," the woman answers, smiling coyly, "Just picking up a few things for my son. So, you have a little girl?"

Brittany's not entirely sure why she's sharing anything because 1) STRANGER DANGER and 2)…well there's only that one reason. But the woman is wearing a green dress and that makes Brittany smile because green is her _favorite_.

"Yes," Brittany says with a smile, recalling her pride and joy, "Nearly one now. Her name's Annabel."

"How adorable," the woman coos. "My little guy's name is Reginald. Don't ask. I didn't really get a say when we were choosing names."

Brittany frowns, "That's too bad."

"Yeah, my partner and I weren't really together back then so…"

"Reginald's still a pretty cute name though. I bet he's a little gentlemen," Brittany states, nodding succinctly and the woman snorts.

"He's something alright. Actually, we should arrange for a little playdate," the woman says, the faintest grin on her face. She looks a tad anxious. "What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

***o*O*o***

Brittany gets to the Kiddie Gym a little late because the GPS lady is a biotch that totally hates her, but that's a story for another time.

Now, she's hustling across the parking lot with Annabel in her arms.

"Great," the woman greets her as she walks in – although Brittany should probably start using her name soon, "You made it. I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

Tina smiles at her, arm wrapped around another woman. "Sunshine, this is Brittany and Annabel. Brittany, this is Sunshine."

The other woman – Sunshine, smiles at Brittany politely and waves at the baby who just shyly burrows into her mother's neck. "Reggie's around here somewhere. He likes the slide the best."

"Mama!" a little tyke shouts, barreling toward them and grabbing onto Tina's leg, "Slide by myself."

"I know," Tina gushes. "I saw you. Now, come here. There's someone I want you to meet. This is Mama's friend Brittany and her daughter Annabel. Can you say hi?"

Reginald's older obviously but he just blinks up at Brittany wriggling his fingers. "Hi."

Annabel bursts into tears.

"Mommy," he says, turning his attention back to Sunshine and Brittany quirks an eyebrow. _What is going on here?_ "What'samatter?" he asks, wondering why the baby is crying.

"She's just a little shy," Brittany says, stooping to stand Annabel up on the floor, "Don't you wanna play, baby?"

Annnabel's lower lip trembles pathetically until Reginald ambles over, his legs slightly bowed. He hands her his favorite stuffed dolphin with a grin. "Share?"

Annabel blinks but she nods, cautiously taking the toy from him and, after an encouraging nod from Brittany, toddles off behind the slightly older little boy.

"She's gorgeous, Brittany," Sunshine says.

"Thanks," Brittany says, genuinely, keeping her eye on the duo, "Reginald is pretty cute, too."

"He takes after his mom," Tina giggles, nudging Sunshine conspiratorially and Brittany watches them confused.

"Actually, he looks more like his birth mother," Sunshine states honestly and Brittany's just about had it.

"Huh?"

"Reginald's my child from a previous partner," Sunshine explains, as if that's enough.

Brittany doesn't get why they keep referring to their husbands as partners.

Such weird sisters.

But, hey, why rock the boat?

She's making new friends and Annabel is having a blast, laughing every time Reginald slides down the slide.

"That's cool," Brittany says, nodding once, "My former…partner and I had Annabel after ten years of marriage. We got together right out of high school."

"So, you're divorced?"

"Yeah," Brittany says, not really thinking about it and shrugging, "It's no big deal."

"Seeing anybody?" Tina asks after a beat or tow and Sunshine elbows her hard.

"That's rude, Tina."

"I'm just asking. She doesn't have to answer," Tina says, a devious smirk on her face that Sunshine merely rolls her eyes at. "Brittany?"

"Um, no," Brittany answers, laughing slightly, "Not dating anyone. I wouldn't even know how. I mean, I've only ever been with one person in my entire life, you know?"

"Wait, like, ever?"

Brittany nods.

"So, like, you've never even had sex with anyone else?"

"_Tina_," Sunshine hisses, eyes wide and Brittany flushes deeply, shaking her head.

"I just, this day and age…that's just…remarkable."

"You'll have to excuse her," Sunshine says, "She always has sex on the brain."

"Wonder whose fault that is," Tina quips in response, looking pointedly at Sunshine but Brittany misses it, her embarrassment settling in.

"It's not that big of a deal. I mean, I enjoy sex. I just…don't need it."

"What did I tell you, Sunshine? I can spot them from miles away. It's uncanny," Tina comments and Sunshine rolls her eyes.

Brittany raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You, my friend, are sexually repressed," she tells the woman, turning to Sunshine. "She has to come to one of our parties. She has to."

Brittany's confused again. "What kind of party?"

"You'll see."

***o*O*o***

Brittany gets there late.

First, GPS Lady really _is_ a bitch and secondly, Annabel chose the moment she was handing her off to Artie to burp –even though she'd been trying to burp her for an hour – and spit-up all down the front of her blouse.

So, she was already flustered what with the quick last-minute change but nothing prepared her for this.

Nothing.

"_Hey_," Tina enthuses, walking over and wrapping her up in an eager hug. "You _made_ it."

Tina's clearly buzzed and as she drapes her arm around Brittany and leads her into the chatter-filled house, she realizes she's not the only one.

There are about thirty or so women here, all around her age, all engaged in conversation and sipping from red plastic cups that she knows – just from the smell – do not contain apple juice. "Britt, made it, Babe," Tina says, her words slurring together just a bit.

Brittany spies Sunshine by one of the plastic ice-filled buckets. "Oh, hey, Brittany," the woman smiles, handing her a packet of papers. "We've already started in the other room. Come on."

Brittany skims through the packets words like Kama Sutra and the Seven-Minute orgasm jumping out from the page, when she gets to page four however, she nearly drops the packet all together.

"What the hell?"

"That's one our more popular selections," Sunshine says, spying the page Brittany's gaping at.

"It's a…that's a…"

"A dildo, Honey," Sunshine supplies, ushering her into the room. "Just a piece of silicone. It won't bite. Although, I'm sure they make some that do."

Brittany flushes cheeks only deepen further when Sunshine says the word aloud and then she looks around the room, eyes bulging out of her head.

"RACHEL? QUINN?"

The brunette in question takes the ball gag out of her mouth with a comical "Pop!" and looks up at Brittany guiltily. "Well, we had to do something, Brittany. I don't want my marriage to end up like yours. No offense."

"It's these types of things that keeps a relationship new and refreshing," Quinn explains. "Plus Sam is really into butt plugs."

"Oh my God," Brittany murmurs, burying her face in her hands.

"Don't fret, Brittany," Sunshine says. "We're all here for the same reasons. Am I right ladies?"

"Yeah!" the group collectively yells out, "Less teasin' and more pleasin'!"

This is starting to look like a long night for Brittany.

***o*O*o***

"It's like some kind of sex cult," Brittany tells him dramatically and Artie outright laughs, "Stop laughing at me."

"You make it sound so dirty," he cackles, not unkindly, "It's just sex."

"But they had like, things and…stuff."

Artie makes a sound, trying very hard to not laugh again, "Did you buy some of these things and stuff?"

Brittany scoffs. "Artie get real. Of course not. And even if I had, why would I tell you?"

"Because I'm still your best friend, Britt," he says, voice warm, "That hasn't changed."

"Yeah," she smiles. "You're right. Well, whatever. I am not hanging out with them again. They're freaks and for sisters, they were awfully affectionate," she comments, remembering how Sunshine and Tina were all over one another.

"Babe, I love you to death, but sometimes it astounds me how clueless you can be. You do know that they were lesbians don't you?"

Brittany gasps. "No way."

"…makes so much more sense now, don't it?"

"Wow."

***o*O*o***

"Wow."

Brittany blushes instantly, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ear.

Third date in as many months and here's hoping the third time's the charm.

Date #1 was at Quinn's insistence, and she gave the guy every opportunity she could but he kept inappropriately touching her, and while Brittany's a naturally very affectionate person, there are only so many times even she will tolerate a virtual stranger "accidentally" grabbing her ass.

Date#2 hated kids.

She chewed Rachel out after that disaster.

And now was Date #3, Artie's friend.

He's not necessarily her type, all muscle-y and cocky and the mohawk, are you kidding? – but she's willing to give him a try because he comes with Artie's highest recommendation which has to stand for something considering she'd married the guy, right?

Wrong.

First of all, if there has ever been a man who is constantly reliving his high school glory days it is Noah – excuse her – _Puck_.

This guy cannot get over that past.

He's talking about all the cheerleaders he banged and all the touchdowns he scored and all the dweebs he wailed on.

Who.

Cares.

Brittany doesn't.

"You're not eating," he finally observes, having shut up for more than a few seconds.

"I'm not feeling too well."

"Well, too bad babe," he says, settling back against his seat. "This meal's already paid for and you need to at least eat half my money's worth."

Brittany's jaw drops disbelievingly and Puck just munched away, uncaring.

Uncaring until she throws her full glass of water onto his face. "Waiter!"

***o*O*o***

Brittany switches her phone off as she pushes open her door.

She's tired, kind of pissed, and since Artie – thinking that tonight would turn out _swell_ – decided to keep Annabel for the night, she now has the house to herself to do whatever she wants..

She's on the third beer before it even registers, and as she moves around the living room dancing for a whole crowd of no one, the feeling of longing in her gut ignites and she finds herself stumbling into bed, her fingers working fast and furious to put out the flame.

But…

For some reason, tonight it's not working.

It's not like it doesn't feel good. She actually manages to work herself up quite spectacularly it's just, when she manages to get right there…right at the edge of bliss and pure insanity she can't go any further.

It's maddening and her whole body's throbbing, craving for a release that she can't bring herself to.

Stumbling out of bed, she ambles over to her dresser, reaching underneath her panties and bras for that pamphlet Sunshine had given her – the order sheet. She bites her lips when she gets to page four and this time the flush on her cheeks has very little to do with embarrassment.

She could order the thing.

Well maybe not _that_ one she thinks with widening eyes, but…it would probably feel so good to have something hard between her legs, pulsing and vibrating and working all toward one goal. All the parts moving to pleasure her and her alone. All working to make her …

Brittany's legs shiver as her body quakes a little, just the thought of the thing enough to push her over the edge.

It wasn't the best orgasm in the world, but, it'll do for now.

Maybe she _will _order the thing.

***o*O*o***

_Ding Dong!_

_Knock Knock Knock_

Brittany shifts, her back feeling remarkably uncomfortable.

She squints against the sunlight filtering in, her head hurting slightly, and realizes why her back feels so crappy, instantly.

_I slept on the floor_.

Rolling her body into a sitting position, she runs a hand through her unkempt hair, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

As she moves to scratch her arm she notices the paper sitting there, item number 29 on page number four circled and underlined and she snorts, smiling at herself.

_Someone was adamant._

She picks up the paper, noting with a flush on her cheeks that she'd actually gone through he trouble of filling out the order form before the knocking at the door starts again and she remembers what it was that woke her in the first place.

She scrambles up, tugging the robe she'd slept in closer to her form as she shuffles out of the bedroom, running her fingers through her unruly hair one more time before answering the door.

There's a UPS delivery person almost down her front steps when she opens the door a crack, peering outside.

"Can I help you?"

The delivery person turns around, the annoyed, frazzled look on her face giving way almost immediately to one much more alluring. "I was just about to take off again."

Brittany shakes her head. "Excuse me?"

The woman smirks. "I've got a package for a Mrs. Brittany Pierce?" she says, holding up a small rectangular box.

"Miss," Brittany corrects automatically before shaking her head with a frown. "Wait, I don't remember ordering anything."

The woman checks the address on the package before looking up at the numbers posted above Brittany's doorway. "This is 2742 Elmwood Drive, right? And you are," the woman pauses, smiling cheekily, "_Miss_ Brittany Pierce?"

Brittany smiles, chuckling in spite of herself. "Guilty as charged."

"Well, then. Maybe someone's given you a gift, who knows? But, my job is to leave this package here with you and you want me to do my job, don't you?"

There's something there, Brittany thinks. The way the woman's eyes are sparkling, the sly way her lips curve upwards. It's almost like she's…but she couldn't be, could she?

Nah, she's just still a little drunk.

"Of course," Brittany replies, opening her door wider. "Do I have to sign something?"

"Oh, right," the woman says, pulling out the electronic signature pad. "Just jot your name right down here on the line and we'll be all done." She hands Brittany the pen, though Brittany's sure she didn't need to brush over _every_ one of her fingers to do so.

The woman's leaning in exceptionally close, unnecessarily close and Brittany catches her eye when she finishes, flushing deeply at the look she's being given.

She knows that look.

And even though it's been several years, it still gets to her.

Her pulse quickens and her throat feels dry and, okay, so maybe it's the alcohol, but she can feel her body temperature going up and up and up.

She can't look away, almost paralyzed by the sheer intensity of it.

"Thank you, Miss Pierce," the woman says, tucking the signature pad back under her arm. "Well, I guess my business here is done."

"I guess so," Brittany whispers out.

The woman grins, "Here's your package."

Brittany grins, reaching for it, "Thank you."

But they fumble the exchange – or pull a Romo for you football fans – and the package clatters to the porch floor, the lid popping open.

At first neither of them really notices – too caught up in one another. But then the UPS lady glances down and her eyes widen and Brittany follows right after.

"Well…" the woman starts, grinning widely.

"Oh my God," Brittany gasps, moving to retrieve the object, her cheeks burning. She tries to stuff it back inside but it's been packaged specifically for its shape so the dense foam surrounding it has expanded and, well, there's no getting it back inside. However, all her poking and prodding has turned the damn thing on and Brittany just can't…even…_oh my God_, kill her now.

"Look at that thing go," the UPS lady comments comically.

"Oh my God," Brittany gasps, finally managing to switch it off. She tucks it under her arm and buries her head in her hands. "I am so embarrassed."

"Hey," the woman says, nudging Brittany's arm kindly. "Look on the bright side. At least I'm a perfect stranger and you probably won't ever have to see me again. Although, I gotta admit, this is one of the most interesting deliveries I've ever made."

"That doesn't really make me feel better," Brittany mutters, the words coming out even more muffled because of her hands.

The UPS lady laughs and grabs her hands, pulling them away from her face. "It's not that big of a deal. I mean, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do. And if," the woman takes the package from under Brittany's arm and reads the small slip of paper accompanying the item, "the purple pussy filler's what a girl's gotta do, then by all means, Miss Brittany, do it."

_What the _hell _was in those beers last night?_

"I didn't…But I didn't order it. I mean, I don't even know how to use it."

"I could…show you?"

Yeah, she's still drunk.

Or dreaming.

Possibly both.

"I mean, not _show you_ show you because that would be weird and presumptuous and stuff but I mean, I'm pretty handy with these types of things. I could show you the basics and," the woman brightens, "Hey, there'd be no weirdness because we're still perfect strangers."

Yeah, no.

Still _pretty damn _weird.

"I…what?"

The woman seems to deflate, shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help," she says dejectedly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," Brittany lies because, well, yes, she's very uncomfortable. Particularly in the groin area. "I'm just…overacting?" she shrugs. "I don't even know. I guess there's no harm in you like, walking me through it, right?"

***o*O*o***

_No harm my ass_, Brittany thinks, stretched out against her unreasonably damp sheets.

When the woman first took the thing out of the box she kind of knew she was done for and what's happening right now is certainly affirmation of just that.

"So," the UPS lady – Santana actually – says, hovering above her in only a bra and matching panties, "First of all, you want to make sure you're really wet. You want to make sure you'll be…receptive, so to speak."

Brittany almost laughs because yeah, she's beyond receptive at this point and Santana knows that – has to because her thigh is rhythmically pressing against Brittany's most intimate area and Brittany's forgone _her_ underwear.

Instead, she clutches Santana's shoulders tighter, teeth clamped down on her lower lip to hold back a ridiculously loud moan.

Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's the 'stranger danger' aspect of it all but she has never been this turned on in her life. She's dripping wet and nipples are so hard it's actually painful and she just knows if Santana touches her anywhere else she's going to explode.

"And then," Santana says, her mouth situated right over Brittany's so that their lips brush together with every whispered word, "you just ease it in…slowly," she breathes, her actions following her words and just like Brittany suspected, she comes undone right away...

….not that that slows Santana down or anything.

She whimpers when Santana slides the toy in halfway, eyes squinted closed as her body literally trembles with pleasure. "So good," she murmurs, one arm wrapping tightly around Santana's shoulders and pulling her closer.

"Oh, you just wait Miss Brittany Pierce," Santana quips, shifting subtly. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

Brittany doesn't curse…often, so the string of expletives that comes out of her mouth when Santana actually turns on the vibrator startles her almost as much as the immense pleasure coursing through her body.

"Oh shit," she gasps, her hips moving on their own accord as Santana thrusts the toy in and out and in and out. Her body's never felt like this before.

It's like, she's had orgasms but those were like sneezes compared to what she's on the brink of now. She can feel herself inching closer and closer to the brink and Santana's little words of encouragement, the coos and hushed murmurs – 'c'mon baby', 'don't hold back, c'mon' – just speed her towards it quicker.

And then…dark.

***o*O*o***

"Um…Brittany?"

Brittany's eyes pop open to find Santana crouched in front of her, fully uniformed and wearing a worriedly cautious half-smile on her face.

"Hey," Brittany drawls, reaching out with one arm and looping it around Santana's neck to pull her in for a super-hot, super-wet kiss.

She's naked, tummy-down on her bed, and she feels completely euphoric.

"Sorry about not returning the favor," she murmurs against swollen lips.

"That's, um, that's fine," Santana says, not moving away but not exactly responding enthusiastically either. "But, Brittany, there's a man here…with a baby."

Brittany's eyes widen and she sits up suddenly, almost knocking heads with Santana in her haste to right herself. "Ohmigod, _Artie's_ here. Did he see you? Did he see me? Did he see us?"

Artie clears his throat, fidgeting with his glasses awkwardly. "Yes, yes and yes," he answers, sounding rather amused actually.

Brittany's face is on fire as she wraps herself up like a mummy in her cotton sheets.

"I'm glad you decided to take my advice, Britt," Artie grins coyly. "You know, getting _out_ there and all."

"This is not happening," Brittany murmurs, covering her face up in mortification.

"Uh," Santana hazards, speaking up again, and settling her eyes on Artie, "Should I…you know, go?"

Brittany's about to say _yes. Yes please _even but Artie beats her to the proverbial punch.

"You know what, no," he says, reattaching Annabel's baby bag to his chair. Brittany drops the sheet, her eyes widening at him from behind Santana's shoulder and she mouths 'no' over and over again to no avail.

Artie's always been a stubborn little prick.

"I actually think I should leave. I am, after all, the odd man out. Just give me a call later, Britt."

And he just looks so damn chipper about the damn thing that she wants to smack him and Brittany's _not _a physical violence person at all so that's saying something.

But once he's gone – and with the haze of post-orgasm euphoria long gone – all that Brittany's left to feel is this overwhelming panic.

She slept with a _woman_ for crying out loud and she can't even lie – shit was hot.

It was amazing even and she still can't believe she passed out from it.

Like wow.

Her eyes finally meet Santana's again and she balks at the look she's being given.

Santana looks…well, she can't exactly say.

"So, I have to go," Santana says suddenly, her fingers working the clasp on her watch. "I had a really good time with you though, Miss Brittany Pierce," she grins, fixing her collar.

Brittany feels this weight settle into the pit of her stomach – like an over-filled Twinkie – and it's just soaking up all her good feelings because it's over.

Santana's leaving.

And, like she promised, Brittany would never have to see her again.

But before that thought even gets to latch on and haunt her like she so desperately doesn't want it to, Santana's in front of her, holding out a card.

"That's got my cell and house phone number on it. And email," she says quickly, nervous even. Her eyes dart around and her shoulders hunch dismissively, like she doesn't really care. But, then she's biting her lip and meeting Brittany's gaze shyly, small smile adorning her face. "So, like, you can call me. Or text me or whatever. If you want, that is."

Brittany smiles, genuine and true, turning the card over in her palm and feeling it burn/itch against her skin. "Okay."

"Okay?" Santana asks, almost disbelievingly.

"Yeah."


	33. Home Alone

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **I'm still dying or something. I dunno. I don't know what I have but one of these days I'll cough up my lung or some other internal organ I swear. Been sitting on this for a while until I had something else ready to go but I'm dragging ass so maybe having nothing in my writing bank will motivate me. Thanks to my beta though, as usual. And thanks for reading and reviewing.

* * *

><p>There are perks to playing hooky and getting to stay home alone.<p>

So, when her parents' mentioned visiting her grandparents in New York for the weekend, Santana opted out, feigning a stomachache in hopes of having the alone time and avoiding the smell of moth balls and Bengay – much to the chagrin of her little brother she might add.

A total win-win, right?

Well, not so much because waking up in the middle of the night to find ski-mask doting strangers crawling over your house definitely doesn't qualify as a perk in her book.

Maybe Macauley Culkin's book but not hers.

Where's half empty paint cans and a hairy spider when you need 'em?

***o*O*o***

"B," Quinn grits out from between clenched teeth, "Shut her up."

"I'm trying," Brittany grunts, attempting to control both Santana's flailing and her shouts. "She's wriggling around more than my cat does."

"Shut her up or I will," Quinn threatens darkly, gesturing to the gun sitting snugly in her waistband.

Santana's eyes go wide as she stops thrashing momentarily, allowing Brittany enough time to lock her arms together with one hand and cover her mouth with the other.

Brittany struggles with the feisty girl until they make it to another room, away from the ruckus.

"You really don't want to upset Quinn," she whispers, glancing back through the darkness to all the commotion. "Ouch!" she yells suddenly, pulling her hand away from Santana's face and shaking it furiously. "You bit me."

"You're robbing me, you moron," Santana deadpans, putting some more distance between them. "Of course I bit you."

Brittany pouts. "It's not nice to call people names."

"Says the _burglar_. Like that isn't the pot calling the kettle black."

"That's racist. Isn't it? Wait, what's a kettle?"

"Oh screw this, I'm calling the police," Santana says, not even caring anymore and becoming increasingly unafraid of the woman standing before her.

It feels like she's living in a real life episode of _World's Dumbest Criminals_.

"Please don't do that," the burglar pleads, moving swiftly to catch up to Santana.

"Stop. Please." She implores, voice laced with desperation.

Santana scoffs. "Why should I?" she asks, pausing mid-dial.

When the burglar just presses her lips together and shakes her head, Santana sucks her teeth in frustration, tapping 9-1-1 with a quickness.

"Okay," Brittany breaks. "You can't do that because that other girl? In the other room?"

"The one with the gun," Santana supplies and the home invader nods.

"She's really mean and she _will_ hurt you."

"Even if you ask her not to?"

"Even then."

The fight goes out of Santana then and she just flops down onto the small lounge chair in the room. "Why are you doing this?"

Brittany shrugs. "It's complicated."

"Well," Santana says, rolling her eyes. "Un-complicate it."

"Quinn says the less you know the better."

"I don't give a fuck about what Quinn says right now."

Brittany's jaw drops. "That's a bad word."

"Are you kidding me?" Santana's incredulity is palpable. "What kind of burglar are you?"

"The kind that steals?" Brittany suggests, rather innocently.

Before Santana can even make sense of her reaction – she wants to laugh for some uncanny and inappropriate reason – the door to the bedroom slams open and the troop bustles inside.

"C'mon, B," Quinn says, loaded duffel bag swung efficiently over her shoulder. "Let's roll."

Brittany catches the bag Kurt throws at her and glances at Santana one more time before moving to join the rest of the gang.

"Okay Chica," Quinn starts, voice dangerously low. "You didn't see anything. You didn't hear anything. In fact, when the police ask, just say you slept through the whole thing. Understand?"

Santana nods quickly just wanting the whole ordeal to be over. Quinn, relishing her control over the other girl, shoves her roughly, laughing menacingly. "Good girl."

Santana stumbles back awkwardly from the unexpected physical contact, her face growing hot with anger and embarrassment and before she can help herself, her temper flares, words spilling out harshly.

"I'll make sure to remember that, _Quinn_," she says, sneering as she regains her footing.

Quinn's eyes widen. "How do you know my name?" she demands, growing angrier when all she receives is a smirk in response.

"Oops," Brittany murmurs, sheepishly looking at Quinn. "I might have maybe said your name earlier."

"B," Quinn groans, rubbing her masked face. "What the hell? We gotta kill her now," she groans, pulling out her gun and pointing it directly at Santana who squeaks rather comically when Quinn cocks back the trigger.

"Wait!" Brittany shouts out just as Quinn squeezes a bit. "Maybe you don't have to kill her."

Quinn sighs. "She knows my name, B. As soon as we leave she'll just call the cops and we'll be arrested for sure."

"But, if we kill her, you'll be arrested for murder when someone hears the gunshot," Brittany points out, grinning smugly at her own intelligence.

Quinn screws on a silencer.

"Oh," Brittany says, face falling.

"Okay," Quinn breathes, aiming her gun again at the cowering Santana. "If there aren't any more objections…"

"Quinn!"

"Brit, _come on_. This is getting old now."

"C'mon," Lauren complains, jiggling her bag of goods, "This is already taking too long."

"Give me a minute," Brittany uncharacteristically snaps, her eyes squinting in thought before she brightens. "Oh, I got it. We should take her with us."

"Veto," Kurt instantly says and Santana – even though she definitely doesn't want to die – kinda agrees with him.

"Think about it. She could be like, a hostage," Brittany continues, shrugging her shoulders aloofly when Santana gives her a 'what the fuck' look.

"Actually, Q," Lauren speaks up again after mulling it over, "That might not be such a bad idea. The bank from tonight is nothing compared to what we could get for her. The Lopez family is loaded. We'd get everything we need and then some."

Quinn looks on contemplatively as Lauren spells out the details of the plan to her and Santana prays to a God she's not even sure she believes in that the crazy stroking her chin with a _loaded gun_ will say "Okay."

Finally, after what feels like hours, Quinn just shrugs, releasing her finger from the trigger and pocketing her gun again. "I'm convinced," she says, turning to Brittany. "Since this was your idea, Bright Eyes, you're responsible for the girl. But, if she steps out of line…"

Quinn doesn't bother to finish.

***o*O*o***

"What the hell, man?" Finn squeals, unlocking the van doors. "What took so goddamn long?"

"Change of plans," Quinn mumbles, hopping into the passenger seat next to him.

Finn watches through the rearview mirror as Lauren roughly pushes Santana down onto the carpeted floor in the back of the van.

The Latina glowers, biting her lip to hold back a scathing remark. Even though the other girl is clearly a jackass, she is partly responsible for her still being alive.

Lauren looks on the verge of saying something when Brittany plops down next to Santana, blocking the girl's view. "Hi," she says brightly, face still obscured by a thick ski mask.

"What?" Santana snaps back.

"Are you okay?" the other girl questions in a voice that is much softer than the situation should call for.

"I don't know," Santana says drily, narrowing her eyes. "You tell me."

Brittany's eyes look confused. "How am I supposed to know?"

"I'm a kidnappee," Santana hisses as loudly as she dares, "Of course I'm not okay."

"I'm sorry." Brittany frowns. "But I couldn't think of anything else and Quinn was going to shoot you."

"She really was," Kurt intervenes from the space across from them.

"I just…" Santana shakes her head, covering her face with her hands. "I just can't believe this is happening."

Brittany reaches for her shoulder, surprised when the other girl doesn't shrug away from the comforting touch.

"What's the matter?" Lauren derides, starting in on the task of sorting out the valuables, "Afraid Mommy and Daddy won't bail out their darling daughter."

Brittany's grip on Santana's shoulder tightens imperceptibly and her eyes narrow to slits as she turns to glare daggers at Lauren. "Leave her alone, Zizes."

Lauren holds up her hands, still smirking but surprised by the sheer acidity in Brittany's tone, opting to leave it alone.

Brittany sits back against the side of the van, her grip loosening just a bit when Santana sighs in relief.

Brittany barely hears the quiet "Thank you" but she smiles nonetheless.

***o*O*o***

"Okay. Good. You're awake," Brittany says, watching closely as Santana stirs slightly.

"Damn," Santana murmurs, opening and closing her eyes lazily and watching a face slowly come into focus. "I was hoping it was all a dream."

"It's not," Brittany tells her seriously, moving to sit cross-legged in front of her.

"Holy shit," Santana gasps suddenly, sitting straight up on the sofa bed.

"What?" Brittany asks hurriedly, panicking and looking behind her. "What is it?"

Santana wants to say something along the lines of "You're gorgeous," but who in their right mind would compliment their kidnapper?

Doesn't stop it from being true though.

The girl sitting in front of her is finally devoid of that dreadful mask and Santana can see that she's blonde, blue-eyed, and beautiful.

"N-nothing," she stutters out, blinking slowly, "Never mind."

"Okay," Brittany settles back down, nerves eased just that effortlessly. "Are you hungry?" she asks. "You were asleep for a really long time."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Must be the stress of being held captive."

Brittany ignores that. "Are you hungry?" she repeats, and this time Santana just nods.

"I'll go grab you something," Brittany says, clamoring out of bed. She pauses at the doorway, biting her lip anxiously and looking back at the other girl. "You aren't gonna try to run away are you?"

Santana stares at her. "I have no idea where we are, therefore, I have no idea how to get home. Even if I did somehow manage to slip out of here without the psychopath or that rhinoceros of a girl spotting me, I'd have nowhere to go."

Brittany stares blankly at her. "So…no?" she guesses.

"No," Santana deadpans, barely containing an eye roll.

The beaming smile she gets in return is as unexpected as the tightening in her chest, so she just stays quiet, not willing to say anything she might later regret.

She barely has time to glance around the empty bedroom before there's a rough knock on the door and an unfamiliar blonde girl slipping in unannounced.

"You're finally awake," the strange blonde says and Santana recognizes the voice instantly, jaw dropping instantly as she openly gapes at the girl.

"No way."

"Quit gawking, ," Quinn snaps, fidgeting with something in her pocket. "I don't like being stared at," she adds as an afterthought.

Without uttering another word, Quinn throws a wadded up piece of paper into the other girl's lap and without warning or preamble, thrusts a gun into her face. "Read," is her one word direction.

Santana swallows thickly and smoothes out the crumpled paper – it's a ransom note.

She looks up at Quinn with watery eyes. "Please," she pleads.

"Read," Quinn barks again, rolling her eyes disinterestedly and setting the trigger.

Santana takes a deep breath before shakily starting to read:

"Hi Mom and Dad. First, I just want you to know that I am in good health, and as long as you follow the directions of this message…I'll stay that way."

Quinn doesn't break for a moment, eyes unblinking as Santana details their plan and directions for the Lopezes to follow. It's almost as if she's completely detached from the moment.

"If you deviate from this plan in any way, or if you seek the help of law enforcement, the deal will be terminated," Santana finishes, tears steadily flowing down her cheeks.

"And so will your daughter," Quinn adds in a business-like tone, producing the tape recorder out of her pocket and hitting the stop button. "Now," Quinn breathes, tucking the gun back into her waistband, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Fuck you," Santana spits out, wiping her eyes.

"Sorry," Quinn smirks, "I don't swing that way." Santana just looks away, staring at the wall, the ceiling, anything other than the blonde's stupid little face. "Here," Quinn says abruptly, holding out a couple of tissues. When Santana looks back at her, the smirk's faded and replaced with a look Santana can't quite place. "When we're done sorting through the stuff we took, I'll give you back your pictures, okay?"

Santana's so thrown off by the gesture and the statement that she just nods slowly, wordlessly accepting the tissues.

"Whatever," Quinn mutters, turning on her heel and leaving the room.

***o*O*o***

"Breakfast is served," Brittany announces, presenting the girl with a bowl filled to the brim with Corn Pops.

Santana quirks an eyebrow. "It took you a half an hour to make a bowl of cereal?"

The blonde flushes deeply. "I tried to make eggs but I'm not very good with…recipes and stuff."

From behind the closed door, Santana can hear muffled voices going on about 'fire extinguishers' and 'eggs on the ceiling' and she finds herself unable to conceal a small smile.

"Thank you," she says quietly, accepting the bowl and being careful not to spill.

Brittany beams, eyes crinkling as the corners in delight. "You're welcome."

Santana's starving, not having eaten anything for dinner the night before – although, it could very well _be_ the night before still. So, she digs in, leaving little room for dignity as some milk drips off her lower lip. She has no idea how long she's going to be around these people and, if the other blonde's behavior is anything to go by, she might not get something else to eat for a while.

Something else occurs to her though and she pauses mid-chew. "You didn't put anything in this, did you?"

Brittany tilts her head, a rueful smile on her face. "Do I look like the kind of person who drugs people?"

"No, but you also don't look like the kind of person who robs people either," Santana says pointedly, rolling her eyes.

Brittany just sighs, looking away uncomfortably and picking absently at the dingy bedspread.

Santana shouldn't care – she really shouldn't – but for the first time since she's seen her, the girl sitting across from her eyes dim, losing a little of their light, taking on a somber appearance.

She takes a deep breath. "Can I ask you something?"

Brittany's eyes fly back to hers as she nods, lower lip drawn between her teeth. "Sure."

"Why are you with these people? You're nothing like them. You're _so_ different from them."

Brittany's eyes dart away again, her shoulders tensing. "I'm not so different."

"They're thugs," Santana deadpans.

"So am I," Brittany answers back, not missing a beat.

Santana rolls her eyes again. "I'm sorry but I'm having a hard time believing that the same girl who brought me breakfast in bed is a ruthless criminal."

The other girl's shoulders rise and fall momentarily in an aloof shrug. "You'd be surprised at what people will do to survive."

Santana scrutinizes the girl sitting before her, curiosity fighting an internal battle with her natural inclination to not give a damn.

Before she can press Brittany for more information though, the bedroom door swings open widely and Lauren stomps in, dumping a pile of sweats onto Santana's abandoned pillow.

"Boss says change," she grunts out around a mouthful of toast. "We gotta make a run."

***o*O*o***

Santana tugs on the too-big sweatshirt, trying not to trip as the bottoms of the pants brush along the sidewalk.

She doesn't know where they are, although she'd hazard a guess that it's not_ her_ side of town.

She's sandwiched between the four of them, kind of.

The big girl, Lauren is walking ahead of her, right next to the giant boy Finn and Brittany and Kurt are walking behind her, side by side.

She couldn't get away if she tried.

Quinn, their leader she's determined, is walking ahead of them all, leading them to this shady looking house with a crumbling porch.

The place needs to be bulldozed.

"So here's how this is gonna go down," Quinn says, rounding on them when they approach the door. "I'm talking. Me. Nobody else. That means no flirting with the bodyguards," she says, glaring at Kurt. "No comparing Halo strategies," she looks to Finn this time. "And _no_ requests to go to the bathroom."

Brittany pouts, "….one time."

Santana bites back a smile.

"And Rosie Perez," Quinn adds, turning to Santana. "The only reason you're here is because I needed the guys to come with and I don't trust you alone with B. Try anything funny and I will end you. And try to keep your head down. Trust me; you don't want this guy to know who you are."

As Quinn turns back around and knocks on the door, Santana uses the opportunity to tug her borrowed hoodie lower over her eyes. Sure, she pretends to be a tough girl – really, she does – but she can't pretend that she's not scared.

It's evident in the way she trembles as she follows the gang into the creepy house.

The place is dark and it smells absolutely awful. Well, not _awful_ awful but it definitely smells like her brother's room after football practice.

There's a few shady-looking people standing around, staring at them with looks ranging from intrigue to pure and utter disdain. Some lanky Asian kid is getting tattooed by this black girl, both of them regarding the incoming party with interest.

In another corner, a group of guys are playing pool, every now and again their gazes shoot in their direction.

It feels incredibly tense but before Santana can freak out some more, some guy with impeccably-shaped eyebrows makes an appearance.

The first thing she notices is that he's wearing entirely too much after shave.

The second:

Gay.

As.

Hell.

"What do you want, Fabray?" the guy asks, his eyes none too subtly glancing over at Kurt, who's preening like there's no tomorrow. "I wasn't aware you had an appointment today."

"I don't," Quinn says gruffly, crossing her arms. "I wanna see Puckerman."

The guy huffs a laugh. "You can't just…come in here and expect to see-"

"Blaine," Quinn cuts him off, eyes flashing dangerously. "Tell Puck I'm here to see him…" she trails off, swallowing nervously. "…about the money."

The guy, Blaine, raises an already too-high eyebrow and tamps down his objections. "Fine," he concedes, turning and off they are again, this time following Blaine.

Santana feels anxious, extremely anxious.

It feels like she's in this waking nightmare and at any moment she'll just wake up and be at home in her bed. And the walls won't feel like their closing in on her and her chest won't feel so damn tight, but as the seconds tick on by and the setting never changes, she's faced with the reality of just how very real all of this is.

Her chin starts to tremble and damn it, no, she will not cry.

Not in front of all these wannabe thugs and especially not in front of Quinn; she'll probably laugh at her.

Besides, won't a wailing member of Quinn's "crew" give her away.

She's too young to die.

And _way_ too pretty.

Still, she can't really help it and her body betrays her, a barely discernable whimper slipping out before she can stop it, but just as quickly, there are fingers sliding between her own.

Santana's eyes widen as she glances to her left, her eyes watching Brittany as the blonde keeps her gaze set on their slowly intertwining fingers, a barely noticeable smile tugging at the corner of pink lips.

Santana stops crying.

***o*O*o***

There's a shirtless guy with a platinum blonde mohawk sitting on a leather chair, a tiny brunette girl draped along him like he's the piece of furniture.

Apparently he's the most ruthless, despicable drug supplier in town but…seriously?

He's got a _platinum blonde mohawk_.

"Q," the young guy, Puck, says, leaning back in his lounge chair, swiveling it a little from side to side. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

Santana watches as something like pure rage flashes across the short blonde girl's face but Quinn swallows tightly, manages to choke whatever she was initially feeling down. "Always a pleasure, Puck."

"I love it when you pretend to like me," Puck moans, playing with his nipple ring as a mocking smile stretches across his face. "Turns me on."

"I'm sure your girlfriend can take care of that," Quinn fires back, not amused.

Puck smirks, grinning wider when the girl slobbering over him starts nibbling on his ear. "That she can. So, to what do I owe this… pleasure?"

Quinn bites her lip, looking nervous. "I need a little more time."

"Nope, sorry babe," Puck says quickly, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

"Look, Puck," Quinn pleads, cutting her eyes to Finn before stepping toward the other boy a little bit more. "Noah," she says again, softening her voice, "I'm not asking for much. Just a few more days."

Puck looks back at her, his smirk lessening just a tad. "I like you, Q," he says after a minute. "You've got that certain quality I find rather attractive in my personal acquaintances…"

The smile that appears on Quinn's face is as fake as the day is long. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Puck drawls, beckoning her forward with a crook of his finger. "Lucky for me, I don't mix business with personal," he says, his voice quiet yet dark. "But, I'm a fair man," he goes on to say, taking the brunette draped over him by the hand and heading her around to his lap so sit. "I'll put it to vote…and by vote I mean, 'I'll ask my _girlfriend_'."

He turns to the brunette. "Rachel?"

"Yes, baby?"

"What do you think? Should I give Q yet _another_ extension?"

Rachel grins, facing Quinn dead-on as she runs her fingers through Puck's mohawk. "I don't really like her."

Puck sighs, shrugging his shoulders. "Sorry, Q. Hos before Bros."

***o*O*o***

It's a much quicker walk _back _to the van.

And Santana's so grateful to be out of that dreadful house that she doesn't even care when Lauren roughly pushes her inside the van's cabin, slamming the doors behind her.

Quinn climbs behind the driver's seat, still for all of two seconds before she starts banging her fists against the steering wheel.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it," she curses over and over and Santana just looks on, bewildered.

Brittany, sitting next to Santana – _again_ – speaks up. "It'll be okay, Quinn."

"No it won't, B," Quinn murmurs, her fingers gripping tightly to the steering wheel. "It won't."

"I don't know why you bothered in the first place," Lauren grumbles, shifting back until she's comfortably slouched against the van's back seat. "I'm telling you the Lopez's are good for the money."

"Because I'm not this fucking person, Lauren!" Quinn suddenly erupts, whipping around to glare at her. "And neither are you. We're not…not…we don't kidnap people."

Finn slowly raises his hand. "Well, technically we do-"

"Ugh," Quinn hisses. "Shut up, Finn."

"Okay."

Quinn sighs, shaking her head quietly. "How did this get so fucked up?"

Finn opens his mouth but Kurt places a hand on his shoulder, silently quieting him with a shake of his head.

"We'll get her back, Q," Kurt says quietly, placing his other hand on Quinn's shoulder. "We will."

Quinn starts the van and pulls off.

***o*O*o***

Santana's in what she's just gone and dubbed as Brittany's bedroom again.

It's plain, save for the pictures of unicorns everywhere and there's little in the form of entertainment, but, I mean, she is being kidnapped so…

"Wanna play tic-tac-toe?"

Santana cuts her eyes at Brittany, hoping her glare is enough of an answer.

Brittany sighs, sitting as stiff as a plank at the foot of her bed and she regards Santana quietly. "Well, what do you wanna do?"

"I wanna go home."

Brittany frowns. "You know I can't let you do that."

"Why not?" Santana asks, uncurling herself and sliding down until she's sitting Indian-style in front of Brittany. "…I know you want to. You're not a meanie like Quinn. I swear I won't tell anybody a thing."

"I…" Brittany looks toward the closed door, biting her lip. "I can't. Quinn'll be mad and…I can't hurt Quinn. It wouldn't be right." Brittany stands suddenly, pacing a little. "Quinn's…she's the only family I have and…and…"

Santana looks on as Brittany actually starts to cry. Like, for real cry. Like _she's _the one in a jacked up situation.

"Um…okay," Santana stutters out, slightly thrown off. "It's okay. Don't…cry."

Brittany sniffles a couple more times before she stops pacing, nose red as she looks down at Santana. "I'm sorry. I just get a little emotional about it."

She plops down next to Santana and lays her head on the other girl's shoulder, snuggling in.

Hesitantly, Santana raises her free hand, patting the blonde gently on the head. "It's okay. I guess. I didn't know you were related."

"We're not," Brittany says, sitting up again. "Not really. She just, she took me in. After my family, uh, kicked me out."

Santana's not _very_ perceptive but occasionally she can tell when people aren't telling the whole truth, and, right here, right now, this Brittany girl is holding something back.

"Why'd they kick you out?" she questions, equal parts interested and concerned; a dichotomy that's quite perplexing to her.

Brittany's face reddens and she looks down at the floor, up at the ceiling, her nails, the window – basically anything that isn't Santana. She mumbles something but Santana is so confused by the suddenly blushing blonde that she misses it entirely.

"Huh?"

"Because I'm gay," Brittany manages to say a little clearer this time, picking at the nonexistent lint on her jeans.

So, like, Santana totally didn't see that coming.

"You're…you…you're what?"

"I like girls and my mom and dad really didn't like that so…"

"You…like girls?"

"Well yeah," Brittany shrugs dismissively. "Girls smell nice and they look pretty and their faces don't scratch yours when they kiss you. Plus, boobs."

"But…like…you're pretty," Santana stutters out stupidly, not quite being able to wrap her mind around this tidbit of information.

It's not that she doesn't _know_ any lesbians.

She's not a completely sheltered individual.

There's Rosie O' Donnell for instance and, actually, she's pretty sure that girl from junior year of high school – Tammy? – was a lesbian. She wore men's clothing and had a flat-top.

But, like, she looked absolutely _nothing_ like Brittany.

Brittany's cheeks and ears tinge pink as she looks over at Santana. "Thanks," she murmurs, a shy grin tugging at her lips. "I think you're pretty too."

Santana's eyes widen at the compliment, spluttering helplessly at the look she's being given. She's seen it before – on, like, her ex-boyfriend Manny – and while she probably should feel uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons, she's not.

She can feel her skin heating up though and suddenly Brittany feels like she's sitting much too close.

"O…kay," she stammers out, shifting back along the bed before clearing her throat. "So, your parents kicked you out?" she prompts, trying to mask the nervousness she feels.

Brittany blinks, the shift noticeably throwing her off, before nodding. "Yeah. When I was sixteen."

"You knew you were gay since you were _sixteen_?"

"I knew I was gay since forever," Brittany answers, not fretting over Santana's shock too much. "Anyway, Quinn found me living on the streets and she took me in. Her parents kind of abandoned her too."

Santana, though still very much hung up on the gay thing and the being held captive thing – can't forget _that_ – can't ignore feeling somewhat sympathetic. After all, she couldn't imagine being thrown out by her parents.

She frowns, taking hold of Brittany's hand gently, "That's a sad story, Britt."

The blonde blinks, a smile taking hold of her features, "You called me Britt."

Santana shrugs, tamping down her own smile, "So?"

"So that's awesome," Brittany whispers, staring into Santana's eyes, unblinking.

She stares for the longest time and Santana, she can't look away.

Even though she wants to because she can feel her face flushing – yet again – she can't look away.

It's like she's frozen.

Lucky for her (maybe?), their moment is broken by a sharp knock against the door, Kurt's whiny voice muffled though still annoying, "Can you two can it? These walls are paper thin and I need my beauty sleep."

Santana snorts, stifling a grin. "He really does," she whispers, watching in amusement as Brittany's blueberry eyes sparkle when she giggles quietly.

Another knock sounds.

"I heard that."

***o*O*o***

She's been alive for a while now but, even with her many years of experience waking up and being woken up, she can't ever recall being in this particular situation.

Brittany's lying on top of her.

Completely on top of her and while it's not predominantly uncomfortable – Brittany's warm and it's totally true what she said the night before about girls smelling good – having another person draped over her like a blanket isn't exactly the norm either.

She shifts a bit and Brittany, in turn, moves as well, snorting a little as her face settles even more in between the crook of Santana's neck.

She mumbles something that Santana doesn't quite catch.

"What?" Santana whispers, hesitating for just a second before tentatively running her fingers through Brittany's hair.

Brittany sighs, her warm breath tickling the side of Santana's neck. "You feel like a bag of marshmallows," she repeats, snuggling in closer. "Like a big, fluffy bag of marshmallows. The pink kind."

Santana grins without trying to, chuckling a little as she scratches Brittany's scalp. "Is that right?"

She feels more than she sees Brittany's smile, the blonde's lips moving slowly where they're still pressed against her neck.

She sits up a little, her hands on either side of Santana's head holding her weight up. "Mmmhmm," she breathes through a grin, her eyes finding Santana's.

Santana's grin melts away, the air in the room suddenly becoming thick and somewhat oppressive and once again she suddenly feels like Brittany is too close.

But then the door's swinging open and Quinn's stomping inside, crooking one eyebrow when she takes note of them, or rather, the position they're in. "Whoa, Lopez. I didn't think you were being serious about your offer the other day," she teases, grinning when a blushing Santana quickly clamors from underneath an equally flushing Brittany.

"Shut up," Santana grumbles weakly, trying to calm her stomach which is rapidly flipping over. She pulls her knees all the way up to her chest as presses her back against the wall.

Brittany calmly sweeps her hair out of her face, swinging her legs over the side of the bed with an amount of grace that should be illegal. "Don't tease, Q. It's not even like that."

"Doesn't mean you don't want it to be," Quinn says, laughing when Brittany reddens further. "Whatever. Get her cleaned up or something. We gotta make a run."

***o*O*o***

"Um…are you done?" Brittany's tentative voice calls through the closed bathroom door. "Please tell me you didn't climb out of the window? Quinn'll be mad at me if that happened."

"I'm still here, Brittany," Santana calls, staring at her reflection in the grimy mirror. She couldn't do much with her hair not having a brush and using her finger for a toothbrush was quite the experience but she looks at least a bit more presentable.

Smoothing down the A&W root beer t-shirt Brittany gave her to wear, she takes a deep breath before turning the bathroom doorknob, stepping out into the hall.

Brittany backs up a step, giving her room.

"Hey," Santana says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Hey," Brittany echoes, smiling brightly. She gives Santana the once-over. "You look good in my clothes. I mean, not that you didn't look good in your own clothes. I mean, you pretty much look good like all the time. I mean-"

"Brittany," Santana interrupts with a laugh. "I get it. Stop before you hurt yourself."

Brittany smiles, hooking her thumbs into the back pocket of her jeans as she leads the way back to her bedroom. "It's just…you look nice. That's what I'm saying."

Santana smiles gently. "Thank you."

"Hey," Kurt calls before they can go back into the room. "You guys want some breakfast? Finn went to McDonald's."

"Yeah, get in here you two," Quinn adds around a mouthful of hotcake. "If I eat another one of these things I'm gonna barf."

Santana shrugs when Brittany looks at her questioningly. "Sure. I guess."

"Don't mind Quinn," Brittany explains. "She gets super happy when she gets some Mickey D's."

"I can see that," Santana quips, sipping some orange juice. "Maybe we should get her some more often," she stage-whispers, making Brittany laugh.

Quinn bites back her smile as best she can, spearing another bite full of pancake.

"What's this?" Lauren says, meandering into the "kitchen" if a hot plate and cooler a kitchen make.

"Oh," Finn says, digging around in one of the paper bags. "I think I have a McGriddle for you."

"I'm not talking about the food, Hudson. I'm talking about this," the girl continues, dropping a package heavily onto the card table.

Quinn swallows tickly, understanding coloring her features.

"What's that?" Finn asks, reaching for it but Quinn stops him, hand covering the item.

"What were you doing in my room?" Quinn asks quietly.

"Why do you still have _that_?" Lauren asks pointedly, nodding toward the table.

"Can one of you explain what's going on here?" Kurt asks, confused.

"Ask Quinn," Lauren sneers, grabbing for the package again and ripping it open. "She's the one who still has the tape."

Brittany, Finn, Kurt and Santana all watch with wide eyes as the small cassette tape is revealed.

"Uh oh."

***o*O*o***

"I told you guys we were _not _going to be those people. Puck holds people for ransom. We're…above that."

"So we just pretend to kidnap people?" Finn asks, perplexed.

"Believe me," Santana speaks up humorlessly. "Nothing about this feels pretend."

"That's not what I meant," Quinn says, rolling her eyes at Finn. "I don't want to get her back this way. It's wrong."

"But we can't just keep Santana here for no reason, Quinn," Brittany says, pouting. "It's not right, either."

"I _know_," Quinn sighs, eyeing the cassette in her hands wearily. "I know. But we can't just like, take her back and shit, B."

"Yes we can," Brittany insists, turning to look at Santana. "She won't tell anybody anything. Will you, San? And maybe…maybe she can just ask her parents for the money…"

Santana's eyes widen as she watches Brittany's expression turn ever hopeful and this horrible feelings settles at the bottom of her stomach as a result of it.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Brittany…" Kurt tries to intervene.

"Why not?" Brittany asks, her voice taking on that child-like inquisitiveness. "We need the money and Santana's parents have plenty of it and she's our friend, right? Fiends help each other."

"She's our captive, Britt," Lauren states sternly. "You need to get that through your head, okay? The minute we figure out how to get Jenny back you're not going to know her anymore."

Brittany's face changes, going blank for a moment before it crumbles and she stalks away.

"You fucking suck, Zizes," Quinn mumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"She needed to hear it. She's not a kid, okay?" Lauren says, callousness in her voice. "And you need to stop treating her like one."

***o*O*o***

So, Santana's connected the dots she thinks.

Quinn (and company) all pretty much took care of themselves in the past, selling drugs and stuff for Puck to make ends meet.

But then Quinn's older brother Sam overdosed one night (or decided he suddenly had wings and could fly off a bridge.) The details on that were still kind of sketchy. But, whatever the case, Quinn, for lack of a better phrase, flipped her shit and dumped what turned out to be thousands of dollars worth of drugs into the river.

In retaliation, Puck took Quinn's little sister Jenny for ransom and now they all had to scramble to come up with the funds or something horrible would happy to the young girl and while Santana's not entirely sure about the underbelly of the drug world, she's seen enough of _The Wire _to conclude that the consequences wouldn't be light.

She shouldn't care, and technically she doesn't. At least not about Quinn and Finn and Lauren and Kurt.

Which really only leaves Brittany, which confuses the hell out of her and while she should hold nothing but contempt for the girl who'd stumbled into her bedroom and thrust her into this insane set of events, her heart feels a little heavy as she shuffles down the hallway, eyes set on the one person in this house she's grown to trust.

Brittany's staring idly ahead, an enormous cat sitting in her lap and purring loudly as she scratches her fingers between his ears.

Santana lets her body drop down next to her, the cushioning in the couch giving way so much that she almost falls into Brittany. "Are you okay?" she finds herself asking, and then almost side-eyes herself.

What the _hell_ is going on?

It must be the Stockholm Syndrome.

"No," Brittany mumbles out, eyes still set ahead, lower lips protruding into a delicate pout.

"Well…." Santana hedges, waiting for something more, but when nothing's forthcoming she adds, "What's wrong?"

Brittany looks to her then, eyes conveying a certain understanding sadness that doesn't quite look right on her. "You know what."

Santana swallows against a suddenly tight throat. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. You're a nice girl. I told you this already. But…we didn't exactly meet under the best of circumstances."

"I know," Brittany nods, even though she sighs a little. "Wasn't meant to be, I guess. Maybe in another life? One where I'm not the world's worst burglar?" she asks holding her pinky up on her free hand, eyes playfully hopeful and Santana finds herself laughing, even though she knows she shouldn't, looping her own pinky around Brittany's.

"Definitely Britt. Definitely."

***o*O*o***

This is dumb.

And stupid.

This is fucking dumb and stupid and Santana's gonna die and her parents won't even know until she turns up on the action news because they're still blissfully unaware of her whereabouts seeing as they're still out of town.

And she's going to have to watch _them_ die too.

Well, she doesn't really care too much about that – in fact she might actually cheer the moment Zizes eats it – but Brittany?

No.

She doesn't want to see that.

You see, the plan is idiotic at best.

The execution requires skill and grace she knows they're not even remotely capable of pulling off.

And how she became a major player in this entire scheme is still something she can't quite wrap her mind around and yet, here she is, standing at the entrance to Puck's main lair, wearing a mini skirt, too much make up, and armed with the protection of a tube of lip gloss.

Aye dios mio.

"Who you?" the same Asian girl she'd seen before asks when she finally opens the door, something akin to a scowl stretched across her face.

"Blaine here?" she asks sweetly, keeping up the charade.

"He's here," the girl says, leaning heavily against the door jamb. "Who's asking for him?"

"Look, can you just get him? I don't got all night."

The girl eyes her, her calculating glare burning holes all over Santana's body before she finally breaks, stepping aside to let her in.

Outside, Brittany breathes a gigantic sigh of relief, ducking back into the cover of the bushes.

***o*O*o***

"So, who sent you?"

Santana watches an anxious Blaine move around the most immaculate bedroom she's ever seen.

How this guy managed to convince anyone he is straight is beyond her.

"Kurt," Santana says easily, sitting down on the edge of his made bed and crossing her legs. "You know Kurt don't you?"

Blaine's eyes widen. "Kurt sent you?" he squeaks, looking alarmed. "Why would he…I mean doesn't he…"

Finn – for all of his overall oafishness – did manage to get one thing right:

"_We could just go get her," Finn offers._

"_We have to get close enough _to_ go get her," Quinn says pointedly._

"_Well, Blaine's got that thing for Kurt. All he'd have to do is show him a little boy-panty and we're in."_

_Quinn, Kurt and Lauren stare at him, slack-jawed._

"_What?" Finn asks, shrugging again. "You notice a lot of stuff when you're not allowed to talk."_

They needed one weak link.

Hopefully, it would be Blaine.

"…I don't get why he would send you. Isn't Kurt…you know?"

"Gay?" Santana supplies, taking note of Blaine's wince.

"Yes," the boy hisses, looking around his obviously still empty bedroom.

"Well, yeah," Santana shrugs. "He wanted me to deliver a message to you."

She crooks her finger, beckoning him forward and he comes, intrigued.

"Open the window," she whispers when he's close enough and Blaine cocks his head to the side, confused.

"Open it," Quinn demands, suddenly standing beside him, her gun pressed against his temple. "Now."

***o*O*o***

Seventy-four of the most excruciatingly slow minutes tick by and they wait in abject silence for any sign that something's gone wrong.

Kurt's gone, with Blaine, and they're just waiting for them to return hoping that a boy-crush is enough insurance that things will go according to plan.

"What's taking so long?" Quinn grumbles, impatiently glancing between he watch and the door. "It shouldn't be taking this long."

Brittany bites worriedly at her lip and Santana can't help but feel a little nervous too, her fingers clenching then unclenching at the bedspread beneath her palms.

Brittany shifts a little, her right hand bumping against Santana's left and without any hesitation she grabs for it, tangling their fingers together quickly.

The door opens quickly, more quickly than they can react actually, but Kurt's smiling when he slips in followed by Blaine and…

"Jenny," Quinn breathes, hugging the girl in an instant. "You're okay," she whispers, pulling back to look her over. "You are okay, right?"

"I'm fine, Quinnie," the girl assures her, eyes misty. "Rachel and Blaine wouldn't let them do anything to me."

"Rachel?" Quinn questions just as the door opens wider, revealing Rachel a.k.a. Puck's second skin.

"This is your one get out of jail free, card," Rachel says quietly, looking around the room. "I know you think I forgot, but Sam was my first love. You never forget your first."

"You guys should probably leave now," Blaine speaks up, shifting anxiously.

"Yeah. I'll keep him occupied until morning but after that…" Rachel states ominously.

"Right," Quinn says, nodding once. "Right," she repeats, hesitating for just a minute before giving Rachel a one-armed hug. "Thank you," she whispers.

***o*O*o***

Santana climbs out of the back of the van, a plastic bag full of pictures and jewelry clasped tightly in her hand, Brittany and Quinn following closely behind her.

Quinn hands her another duffle, more items of the Lopez' tucked neatly inside. Finn's stalling the car about a couple houses down from Santana's house, not willing to risk anything. It's still pitch black out because Quinn and company have to hightail it out of town in order to stay ahead of Puck.

"I just…" Quinn starts, clearing her throat when her voice cracks momentarily. "It's cool you're not gonna go to the police or whatever."

Santana rolls her eyes but she just nods, accepting what is undoubtedly the best Quinn can manage for an apology.

"Anyway, I'm sure B wants to say goodbye or something so…" Quinn says quietly, glancing at a forlorn looking Brittany, "I'll leave you two to it."

Santana sighs deeply, her shoulders rising high before falling, "So-"

But she doesn't get far with Brittany's strong arms flying around her shoulders and pulling her into a crushing hug. "I'm gonna miss you," she nearly wails, burying her face into Santana's neck.

Santana's surprised to feel the actual prick of tears in her eyes and she closes them quickly, unwilling to actually cry because of this.

This _is_ what she wants after all.

Still,

"I can't believe I'm actually going to say this but, I'm gonna miss you too, Britt."

"Maybe we can…keep it touch?" Brittany hedges. "I mean write each other or whatever because I know I can't touch you from so far away."

They'd settled on the east coast, Quinn and company.

It was far enough that Puck wouldn't dare follow and New York was as good a place as any to disappear.

"I'd…I'd like that, Brittany," she says quietly, knowing that they probably won't be able to. Part of disappearing and all of that.

Brittany seems to get it too as she pulls back a little further, her smile shaky as she breathes out a 'yeah'.

The van horn honks in the distance and Brittany startles, glancing quickly over her shoulder before looking back to Santana. She hesitates for just a moment before moving closer again, brushing the most delicate of kisses against Santana's cheek. "We'll see each other again," she whispers, mouth close to Santana's ear. "I know it."

Without another word Brittany pulls away entirely, not looking back as she walks away even though Santana can make out the tale-tell shaking of her shoulders.

***o*O*o***

**Six months later…**

"Are you coming now or…"

Santana looks up from her email to her roommate, hair still tossed up on top of her head in a messy bun. "Five more minutes. I gotta shoot my folks this email."

"Okay, fine," Sugar says, nodding and moving toward the dorm room door. "But if you're not downstairs in five, I'm leaving without your boney ass. Sorry, Asperger's."

Santana rolls her eyes and waits until her roommate is out of the room before maximizing the screen she'd just closed moments before.

The article reads: "_BIG BUST IN LIMA. THE NOTORIOUS PUCK TO SERVE MAXIMUM SENTENCE"._

"Too little too late," she murmurs quietly to herself, shaking her head at the image of an irate Puck leaping at a news photographer.

The knock at her door breaks up where her mind's just about to go. Any time she thinks about Lima she thinks about what happened to her and then she thinks about Brittany…and how much she misses her.

It's insane.

Completely and totally because, _hello_, they kidnapped her and Brittany was as much responsible for that as Quinn or Lauren or any of them.

And yet…she does miss her and it's crazy because Santana thinks she may have been the best friend she's ever had.

_God_, she thinks, _how depressing is _that_?_

"Who is it?" she asks, when the door knocks again and, getting no response, she pushes up out of her chair and walks over, ready to rip the door open and tear whoever a new asshole but when she does rip the door open all of the air whooshes out of her lungs, leaving her fiercely breathless.

"Haven't you learned anything?" Brittany asks her with a grin and an adorable head-tilt and before Santana's mind can even formulate a response, Brittany's holding her, arms wrapped around her middle and squeezing for dear life.

Santana returns the hug, inhaling a lungful of Brittany, glad to be able to breathe again but then Brittany steals it away again just as quickly when she tilts her head and captures Santana's lips with her own.

It's not an ideal first kiss – Santana's unprepared and her lips are chapped and Brittany's caught her so much by surprise that she's not even closed her eyes yet – but she still feels more from this kiss than any other she's ever received in her life.

Her eyes flutter closed just when she's getting into it and Brittany chooses that moment to back away, her eyes flitting over the features of Santana's face as she grins unabashedly. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"Brittany," Santana squeezes out, feeling a little out of sorts. There's a thought tugging at the back of her head – something about how wrong this is. How she's not gay, like, _at all_ and Brittany's this former – she hopes – criminal and yeah, just _no_. "Brittany, I'm not-"

"Oh, don't kid yourself Santana," Brittany says, settling her hands at the base of Santana's spine. "You're _totally_ gay for me. And I'll prove it," she adds slyly, tugging Santana closer even though she's pretty damn close as it is. "Just let me kiss you again," she whispers cutely and Santana blinks once before nodding slightly.

Brittany kisses her and kisses her and kisses her and…well, let's just say she makes an excellent point.


	34. Can't Help Fallin'

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **So, I guess I'll call this labor of love a year in the making because that's when I started it. Actually, it started as a Spashley prompt; that's how old it is but I finally got 'er done due to the diligence of my beta so a huge thank you to her. Also, as a result, this is kind of _really_ long so I wouldn't recommend reading it until you were absolutely certain you had time to. Thanks for sticking with me guys. Oh, and for those of you who don't know, check me out at tumblr [ .com]. I put a couple ficlets up there that I'm not planning on posting on here because fanfiction is being _ridic_ these days. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and even if you don't I'd like to hear from you guys either way so drop me a review or whatever. Thanks again guys and happy Tuesday. P.S. Sorry about the title but it was either this or_ Brittana Mob Fic_, lol.

**Author's Note #2: **If I could re-write history, this is how I'd do it: where blacks, whites, Hispanics, Jews and Christians, gays and straights all got along. The only notable division would be class because money always matters.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Can't Help Fallin'<strong>_

The screech of metal grinding and squealing echoes everywhere around her and the air is dry, stale like it's been trapped down here too long.

Rachel checks her wristwatch again before glancing up at the giant clock on the wall, ornate yet simplistic, waiting anxiously for the moment of arrival. The timekeeper stands atop the ladder, erasing chalk-drawn numbers and scrawling in new ones.

Chicago Union Station bustles with activity, the noises filing the space to the rafters, where long columns stretch up and meet in the center again and again and again. People traipse up and down the long majestic staircases, luggage and briefcases indicating that they're displaced, if only for the time being. Train cars load and unload passenger after passenger, traveler after traveler, then packing it all in to do it all over again. Off to another city…another place…

"All aboard!" The conductor just to the left of her yells, clanking his brass bell. He catches her eyes when he sees that he's frightened her, his mustache slightly curled at the tips when he smiles.

"Sorry Miss," he says, tipping his hat apologetically and Rachel returns his sentiment with a nod and a smile of her own.

Another train pulls in, shiny and black, its bells sounding regal and majestic as it appears through clouds of steam like magic.

The conductor steps to the first car and lowers the small wooden step ladder, holding his hand out for the young woman who's first off.

"Santana!" Rachel shouts, rushing across the train platform to greet her.

Santana looks just as she remembered – it's been five years or so – a little taller perhaps, and a lot more happy.

Her hair is curled in neat ringlets, clasped upwards in a pretty yellow bow that matches the yellow of the blouse she's wearing. Her sweater and skirt combo are casual yet elegant, and the latter twists about as she climbs down the stairs gingerly, legs a little unsteady after a day-long train ride.

Rachel's navy blue dress swishes to and fro as she steps hurriedly, arms outstretched as they accept the other girl in an enthusiastic embrace and Santana smiles, hugging her back, her eyes growing warm with moisture.

"Hey Rachel."

***o*O*o***

Brittany leans back against the rough surface of the building, cigarette hanging lazily from her lips as she watches the light traffic all around her. It's Friday night, a busy night, and she turns up the collar on her jacket. It's hot still, early August in Chicago after all, but the nighttime breeze from the lake makes her shiver a bit, makes the few locks of blonde hair that have managed to escape her derby flutter gently.

She smiles, nodding slightly at an older couple as they pass by, their hands clasped together but they just scurry by quicker and she knows why.

It's best not to get involved with a "made" man – or made woman, as the case may be.

She flicks her cigarette aside and strolls back inside, hands tucked neatly into her pressed slacks, the music and sounds coming back to her as the club is in full swing.

It's called the Sugar Shack, owned and operated by one Mr. Blaine Anderson.

He's a Chicago kid, through and through, well-connected. He had to be to basically turn your average diner into one of Chicago's finer night hotspots.

He's got a hand in everything having to do with the place, from which linens they use on the rows and rows of tables, to exactly what hue of light the bar should be bathed in. She'd say he's pretty good at it – that and managing to stay just on the favorable side of some rather unfavorable people.

He co-runs the joint with his "cousin" Kurt – Brittany smiles at him as she walks by, and he nods, shimmying a little in his shiny, metal gray double-breasted suit – but they're not fooling anybody, what with the string of women Blaine steadily turns down and the fact that both of them live under the same roof. Brittany's not sure why they hide it – she's out after all – but they do. Mike told her once that it's easier for them that way; makes everyone else around them comfortable.

Speaking of Mike, where _did_ her right-hand man get to?

"Lookin' for me, Cookie," some random guy asks her, stepping in her path and plucking his finger against her suspenders. "Whaddaya say you and me make tracks and blow this clam-bake?"

Brittany smirks, reaching her hand up to trail her index finger down the man's pointed shirt collar, dragging it down until she's poking him gingerly in the belly. Then, without warning, she punches him _hard_, right in the gut.

"Not interested, Cookie," she says dismissively, shrugging him aside without so much as a care, her feet carrying her to the familiar sounds of laughter.

Mike claps her companionably on the shoulder as she makes her way to their table, still chortling away. His jacket, like always, is almost hanging off of his body and the tight undershirt he has underneath does little to obscure just what underneath it. "Aww, Britt. He was probably just joshing ya."

"He was a tool and had had way too much giggle juice. Plus, he called me Cookie."

"Any dame would be mighty flattered to be called that," Quinn, Mike's girl, says, leaning against him heavily as they sway slightly to the music in their seats. She tips his hat down, pulling it off his head and hiding behind it momentarily to give him a kiss.

"Well, I'm not your average dame," Brittany says with a roughish smile, trying to flag down one of the wait staff. Something catches her eye and they spark momentarily, before she looks back to Mike. "Where's Flannigan?"

"I think I saw 'im chasing some skirt, earlier," Mike answers with a roll of his eyes, pausing to take a heavy gulp of his scotch on the rock. "That kid's a twit."

"We need him," Brittany says, nodding off to the far corner of the room and Mike follows her eyes, spotting the two out of place men, sticking out like a couple of priests at a peep show.

"I'll find 'im," Mike nods, tossing back his drink the next instant.

"Oh, Mikey," Quinn says, grabbing onto his arm. "Do be careful."

"When am I not," Mike grins, pressing a sloppy kiss to her temple before slipping his bowler back onto his head.

***o*O*o***

Brittany keeps her eyes on the men, slowly making her way toward the bar and beckoning for Blaine with a slight twitch of her wrist.

"Well if it isn't Miss Brittany Pierce," Blaine effuses, wiping down the immaculate bar with a rag. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"I'll have some bourbon if you've got it," Brittany says, fixed him with a pointed gaze and he lingers, noticeably gulping before nodding ever so slightly.

"Got a room handy?" she asks him, drumming her fingers across the slickened bar top. "I need a room. And stop looking so nervous," she adds, smiling a little at him. "I'm not gonna do anything to _you_."

"Oh, I know. I'm not worried about you," Blaine tells her, his eyes darting just down the line of the bar where Kurt is charming the slacks off of some unsuspecting businessmen. "Last time you fellas needed a room, Kurt kicked me out of the bedroom for a month," he confesses quietly. "And Brittany, it's simply impossible to get blood stains out of Newport linen."

Brittany laughs good-naturedly, pulling out her billfold. "Why didn't you just tell me? I could've replaced them. Sleeping on couches is no fun," she says, sliding a neatly folded up bill across the counter.

It's a $100 bill.

"I'll try to remember that next time, Miss Brittany," he nods, sliding the money into the pocket of her white suit coat.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Anderson," she says, pushing away from the bar without retrieving her drink.

Blaine nods, swallowing down the liquor she left behind.

He hopes that they won't break any of Kurt's mother's crystal.

***o*O*o***

Santana watches in excitement as the buildings and complexes flash by, illuminated only by the street lights posted on nearly every block.

This place – Chicago – is a far cry from her life back home. One filled with the monotony of endless fields scattered every now and again with a farm house or plantation. But here, the night sounds she's so accustomed to – the screech of an owl or the steady chirp of crickets – all gives way to the vibrancy of a city thrumming to a single beat, pulsing with liveliness; awake, even though the dawn of a new day is mere hours away.

Rachel shifts on the seat next to her, and Santana can sense her watching her profile, can tell that Rachel's excited that she's excited.

"It's marvelous, isn't it?" she asks her. "When Father and I first moved here I couldn't stop staring."

"It is pretty great," Santana agrees, her nose nearly pressed against the glass windows of the cab car. "One could get lost in all of this."

"Don't worry," Rachel assures her with a smile, prying one hand away from where Santana's gripping the seat. "I won't let you get lost. Not again."

And there it is; the thing Santana'd been dreading since her departure from Lima, Ohio: the confrontation with why she'd left in the first place.

"You're my dearest friend, Santana," Rachel says quietly, weaving their fingers together, "And what's more, you're family. You needn't worry about being yourself here, least not with me."

Being herself.

She wonders if she _can_ even do that here. If she'd be brave enough.

Being herself at home meant disappointed fathers and shameful mothers; but here? With Rachel?

Is it possible that she can just _be_ without repercussion? That Rachel will love her _in spite_ of what she is?

…_who_ she is.

Her shoulders shudder unintentionally and she smiles, grateful for Rachel's words. "I'm so glad I've come to stay with you."

"I'm glad too, cousin," Rachel returns, her smile genuine. "I'm glad too."

***o*O*o***

The bare light bulb hangs from the center of the room, illuminating the dark area in deep yellow light.

The room reeks of cigarette smoke and…possibly…petunias?

Brittany stands there, flanked on either side by Mike and Rory Flannigan, the latter of which looks like he's two shakes away from a tosser.

She doesn't know why she keeps him around – he's too green, Mike likes to say, although she's thinks he's more say buttermilk white. Mostly, she's doing it because Sugar's sweet on him and she's been friends with Sugar since forever. All in all, she reckons it's not too terrible having a guy like him around, at her beck and call, even if it is obvious he's fresh out of puberty.

Across the room, Alexei Popov and Ivan Petrov, two Russian mob affiliates, stand, unafraid; eyes roaming over Brittany and company like they're sizing up the competition.

A couple of months ago, they'd be shaking in their wing-tips.

My, how the mighty have fallen.

"What are you doing in my neighborhood? The Russians got no business here," Brittany asks after another minute or so, her tone decidedly unfriendly.

Ivan laughs mirthlessly. "Last I heard, thees neighborhood ees ripe for the picking."

"Capone owns 21st-" Mike speaks up.

"Capone owns a dirty vittle jail cell. Or he veel soon. Don't you morons read?" Alexei interrupts with a malicious smile. "When are you people going to wrap your greasy little brains around that? Do you really think that the Russian mafia will bow down to Capone's next up? A _voman_?" Alexei spits on the ground. "We'd sooner shoot off our own nuts."

Brittany smirks. "I'll make sure to pass that on to the Donna. I bet she'd love to see that." Mike and Rory laugh behind her, their faces masked with a bravado that doesn't really exist – exhibited by the anxious shuffle of their body positions.

Ivan advances quickly, furious, and Mike and Rory step in front of Brittany on instinct.

But Ivan doesn't come closer, merely smiles, his lips twisted cruelly. "You make your jokes _vittle_ _girl_," he sneers, "We'll see who'll be laughing last."

Without nary another word, he and his partner in crime leave the room, so fearless that they completely turn their backs to Brittany and the rest. "Mark our words," he adds ominously, before they're gone entirely, their quiet unhurried footfalls echoing in the corridor just outside.

Brittany looks at Mike, exchanging her concern with him without even needing to say it.

Their boss is _not_ going to like this.

***o*O*o***

"Thank you kind Sir," Rachel nods politely as the cabbie sits Santana's luggage at the top stair of her stoop.

"No problem at all, Miss," the young lad grins impishly, although he throws extra emphasis when her grins at Santana. "Enjoy the rest of your evenin'."

Santana smiles, embarrassed, and even more so when Rachel tosses her a knowing, teasing look. She waits until he's out of earshot before looping her arm through Santana's, leaning in to bump her shoulder. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Santana," she says, lowering her voice a little and laughing when Santana cracks up.

"How do you manage not laughing aloud when that happens?" she asks and Santana shrugs.

"I've had a lot of practice. And I'm certain it helps that most times they're not exactly my type," she answers, coy smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Rachel pulls her key from the folds of her dress, twisting it into the lock and turning open her door with ease and it's only then that Santana starts to panic.

"Rachel," she starts, tugging on the girl's hand before they go inside, "I've been meaning to ask you. I know you said, when you wrote, that Uncle Hiram would be fine with me coming to stay with you but, does he…You haven't…." she trails off, frustrated with her inability to even say the words. "Have you?" she finally settles on, her voice timid.

Rachel's grin softens, her eyes turning from amused to something much more akin to pity.

Santana doesn't like that she looks at her that way.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in the letters," Rachel says, almost forcefully pulling Santana across the threshold and into the home. "Please forgive me, but Father didn't want to risk them being read by someone else. His sister, _your _mother, doesn't know."

Santana swallows thickly, following Rachel throughout the darkened home until they reach the living area, her heart thumping in anticipation. "What doesn't she know?"

Rachel smiles, finding a lamp and switching it on so that the room is illuminated, light reflecting off of sterling silver trinkets and photo frames. She grabs one, hands it to the other girl, and looks on as the pieces fall into place in Santana's mind – recognition dawning as she takes in the image of a younger Rachel, her uncle Hiram, and, another man, whom her mind recollects meeting a long, long time ago.

She looks back at Rachel, question burning in her eyes, and Rachel nods, eyes glossy with tears when she sees the first of Santana's fall.

"I've got two fathers."

***o*O*o***

"They were at the Sugar Shack? _My Sugar Shack_?"

Brittany and Mike look at one another, standing there unmoving as their boss continues to have a conniption in front of them.

They wince when she hurls another smoking pipe at the wall…only to have William Schuester replace it with another; slipping it, already lit, between her lips.

"Well technically," Brittany starts innocently, "I reckon it does belong to Blaine…" she says, trailing off when Mike signals her to with a quick shake of his head.

Sue glares at her, "Well thank you for that sparkling observation, Brittany. Someone pin a medal on her _ass_."

"Calm down, Boss," Will says gently, reaching for her shoulder but she shrugs him off, brushing out the wrinkles in her pristine white shirt as she does so.

Sue Sylvester, second in command only to one Mr. Alphonse Capone, does not do well with wrinkles.

And this Russian mob thing has the propensity to put a giant wrinkle into her plans.

"Do not tell me to calm down, William. Those inbreds had the ganchos to herp on my territory!"

Will frowns, "I…don't even know what that means."

Sue continues to seethe silently, now pacing around the room. "I can't have them thinkin' that this is okay. It'll be like pardoning the Milton brothers, or pretending to not notice Lebron James' receding hairline."

"What?" Will, Brittany, and Mike ask at the same time.

"Don't worry. The people reading this story will get that."

Sue paces around her desk one last time before sitting down, fingers folded neatly against the bridge of her nose.

"So, uh, boss," Mike speaks up reluctantly, once she goes quiet again, "Whaddaya want us t' do?"

"It's simple," Sue says quietly, her eyes flashing, "They don't respect us. They don't think we mean business. We're just gonna have to send them the message loud and clear."

***o*O*o***

Santana awakes to the sound of music, and though she's still tired – she and Rachel stayed up until dawn talking about everything from fashion sense to their favorite pictures – she's more than excited to start the day.

The first day of the rest of her life.

She quickly slips out from underneath the covers, sliding her feet into the slippers Rachel lent her and gracefully slipping into her robe.

Absently, she takes notice of all the items lining Rachel's walls and Rachel's dressing stand, awards and accolades accumulated over the years, and it makes her a little sad that she'd been forced to abandon her own, forced to toss aside her life in Ohio.

It passes quickly though, the smell of hotcakes and maple drifting through the closed bedroom door and beckoning her like a lighthouse signals ships at sea.

She freshens up and gets dressed quickly, pulling her long, dark hair back and pinning it into a neat bun before she follows the sounds and scents to their source.

"There she is," her uncle Hiram greets, spotting her first and standing from the table with a wide smile. He looks exactly as she remembers; streaks of gray hair in his perfectly styled hair the only noticeable difference. "How are you, Sweetheart?" he murmurs, holding her in a tight embrace.

"Fine and dandy, Uncle," she says, feeling a little out of sorts as the other gentleman rises to his feet as well.

"Hello, Santana," he says, his voice gravely and deep, but his eyes and smile are nothing short of kind. "I'm Leroy."

"Hi," she replies, polite yet shy.

There's a tension in the room – everyone seems just a tad perplexed about how to proceed.

The man chuckles, turning to retrieve a plate from the cupboards. "I hope you're hungry," he says. "I may have gone a little overboard with my 'Welcome to the big city, Santana' breakfast."

And just like that, the tension's gone.

"Yes, Leroy," Hiram says, leading her to the dining table. "Three courses may be overdoing it just a bit."

"It's called hospitality," Leroy defends, setting plates down in front of Rachel and Santana in turn as he and Hiram move about the somewhat small dining space, filling the table.

"It's called being a show-off," Hiram jokes, placing a decanter of fresh egg-lemonade on the table. Rachel and Santana share amused grins, the ease with which everyone is interacting exactly what Santana _needed _to see.

"See?" Rachel whispers, placing a reassuring hand over Santana's. "Just like any other family."

***o*O*o***

The door knocks just as they're finishing up breakfast and Santana's none too grateful for the interruption – her Uncle was dreadfully close to asking what it is she intends to do with the rest of her life and that's a question to which she doesn't know the answer.

Not yet, of course.

Rachel must be glad for the distraction too because her face lights up and she leaps from the table. "That must be Samuel," she sing-songs, almost skipping to the front door.

"Who is Samuel?" Santana asks and the two men share an incredulous look.

"Who is Samuel?" they echo in unison, looking flabbergasted.

"Yes?" a young blonde boy, about their age, Santana thinks, says, poking his head in through the doorway. "Did you need me Sirs?" he asks, his bright eyes floating from face to face to – his eyebrows tilt in confusion – face.

"Uh, hello?" he greets with a crooked smile and it's only then that Rachel reemerges.

"Oh, Samuel. You do remember me telling you about my cousin coming to stay with us for a spell? Santana?"

"Oh yes," the boy grins, face alit with remembrance as he approaches the table. "Yes, the one from Ohio. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Santana," he says, holding out his hand for a proper handshake. "Rachel's told me ever so much about you."

"Not _everything_, of course," Rachel rushes to say, quickly taking note of Santana's panicked expression.

"Well, I 'spose not, but surely enough that I feel like I already know ya'," he laughs a little, scratching his hair in what appears to be a show of nerves.

"Unfortunately," Santana starts, "I can't return that _particular_ sentiment. Rachel's neglected to tell me anything about _you_."

Rachel shrugs when Sam and her fathers turn to her, accusatory and wounded eyes abound. "Well, what was I to say? 'Santana, do you have a steady back home? Because I do and he's the greatest' seems horribly intrusive. Besides, it's rude to discuss one's love life aloud."

"Since when," Leroy questions, jaw slightly slackened, "Have you given mind to what may be intrusive or not? Hiram, be a dear and fetch the thermometer. Our child's wrought with _something_."

They all share a laugh at Rachel's expense, even Samuel, who straightens up straight away when she cuts her eyes at him. "Very funny, Father," she says, reaching for Santana's hands and tugging her up and away from the dining table. "Come, Santana. Let's leave these hyenas to their comedy show."

Sam turns to leave with them and Rachel spins on the spot, holding out an arm and blocking his motion. "You too, Samuel," she tosses over her shoulder, marching away with a giggling Santana in tow.

"What did I do?"

***o*O*o***

Sam's a pleasant boy Santana supposes, a little eager, but perhaps that's part of his charm.

Santana wouldn't really know.

Rachel's taken with him though; that much is obvious in the way her cousin laughs giddily at every joke and clings to his arm like a toddler to its parent.

She's happy that Rachel is happy but part of her can't help but wonder if she'll ever have that.

If she'll ever finally shed the self-loathing blanket of oppression she's woven for herself and embrace her true nature so that she can finally love…

…and be loved back.

"You're gonna like it here, Santana," Sam vows, holding open the door for the two women. "You ain't had good grub until you've eaten at The Bomber."

The Bomber – owned and run by Mr. Artie Abrams – is located on 500 and Franklin Street and is the happenest, jivingest daytime hangout this side of the Chicago River.

Everyone who's not hitched or looking to get hitched hangs out at Artie's on Saturday afternoons. It's literally, the only spot in town.

There's nothing too outstanding about the place except the amazingly good food – that's always cooking as far as Santana can tell, the scent and sight of smoke lingering heavily in the air – and the jukebox stays up to date with the latest hits – all music Santana was mostly forbidden to listen to at home but she secretly enjoyed on the rare nights she'd manage to sneak out (okay, only one time) – but mostly it's popular because Artie lets the kids who patronize there do just about whatever they want as long as they make sure to partake in a slice of his famous peach pie.

He's a bit of a stickler about the pie.

"What Sam means to say is that the cuisine here is quite fantastic," Rachel translates for Santana, allowing Sam to escort her to an empty booth, the boy waiting until both ladies slide inside before he settles in.

"I said what I meant, Rachel," Sam gruffs, flicking his short hair back with a practiced hand. "Hard to believe you two are related, Santana, if you don't mind me saying. You barely say a word and Rachel can't quite stop her gums from flappin'."

"I'll gladly stop flapping my gums but then they also won't be available for other activities, Samuel," Rachel sniffs, crossing her arms across her chest, only just realizing the double-meaning of her words. "I mean-"

Santana laughs as Rachel and Sam both turn a violent shade of red. "I only speak when I've got something to say," she quips.

"Alright," Sam says, holding up his hands. "Just trying to be friendly is all. Friendly conversation. I'm already partial to your cousin there, if you haven't noticed."

"Oh Samuel," Rachel swoons.

Santana rolls her eyes and Sam chuckles when he notices. "So, what about you? You leave a boy back there in the cornfields?" he asks her, laying on a really heavy Southern accent.

Rachel shoots a quick, apologetic look to Santana who tenses noticeably before reaching for one of the paper napkins, tearing bits of it off at the corners. "No," she says, shaking her head while pressing her lips tightly together.

"_Aces_," Sam grins good-naturedly. "Don't know if Rachel told you this or not but I'm a _pretty_ fine matchmaker. Got some of our greatest pals knotted up."

"Perhaps, we should hold off on that endeavor, dearest," Rachel says, reaching across to pat his hand, "At least until we've ordered."

"Sure, alright," Sam says with a shrug, waving a hand to catch the waitress' attention.

"Well, hey there Mr. Evans," the waitress says as she sashays over, smile a mile wide, "Long time no see, sugar."

Sam blushes, ducking his head down shyly until he catches wind of the death glare Rachel's sending his direction. "That's 'cause I've been having a ball with my adoring girlfriend, Rachel. You remember Rachel, don't you Mercedes?"

"Sure do. I never forget a face," Mercedes says dryly, turning to the girl in question, "First ever patron to turn down a free slice of Artie's pie. Last one, too."

"I thought he meant something untoward when he first offered a 'taste of his pie'," Rachel defends meekly.

"And this here is Santana," Sam continues on in a rush, hoping to move past Rachel's transgression. "She's here from Ohio."

"Oh, a wheatie, huh?" Mercedes says, interest piqued, "Visiting?"

"Just…passing through," Santana shrugs aloofly, not giving anything away.

"Well, nice to meet you anyway," the waitress grins, reaching out to shake her hand, "And if any of these knucklehead fool guys give you grief, you just come to me. They all know that Mama Jones is not one for foolin'."

"Ain't that the truth," Sam agrees with a cheeky grin, laughing when Mercedes nudges him on the head for it.

"I don't think that'll be much of a problem," Santana says, smiling kindly. "But thank you anyway."

The way she says it and her sheepish look is all Mercedes needs to know and she winks in understanding, "Just the same. Now, lemme go and put you-all's order in."

"But we didn't order anything," Rachel says, confused as Mercedes walks away.

"You never order anything here, Rach," Sam says smoothly. "Mercedes just brings us what she thinks we need. Now," he says, leaning forward in the booth, "Let's get back to this whole 'who Santana should go steady with' thing."

"Let's…not," Santana says, leaning heavily on her arm that's propped up against the table top.

"No, c'mon," Sam pleads. "I'm really good at this I swear. Just…give me a little insight."

"Sam," Rachel says firmly, looking to Santana once for permission and getting it in the shape of a firm nod, "You won't be able to pick the perfect guy for Santana because Santana doesn't want the perfect guy."

Sam frowns. "What?"

Rachel sighs, shoulders deflating and Santana just takes a deep breath, finally finding the courage to say aloud what she's been whispering quietly into the night for years. "I'm gay."

Sam slowly sits back, the vinyl of the booth seat shifting slightly, "…huh," he breathes.

Rachel turns to her cousin proudly, draping an arm around her shoulders in a sideways hug. "I'm so proud of you," she whispers, watching intently as Santana takes another shaky breath before relaxing.

She'd known that Rachel knew – after all she's been telling her in not so many words for years – but there's something about saying it, _owning_ it, and having Rachel accept it all the same that overwhelms her.

Sam, for his part, seems to be a bit floored – apparently not having seen _that_ one coming at all, but, unsurprisingly (he is dating a girl with two fathers after all), he recovers in a way that's so uniquely him and so startlingly genuine that he cements a place for himself forever in Santana's heart.

He smiles at her, a devious but honest smile.

"I betcha I can guess your type."

***o*O*o***

Rory spots them as soon as they come in and his hand shoots up in the air enthusiastically, waving them over with about as much discrepancy as a leopard at a tiger convention. "Brittany!" he yells out. "Mike!"

Mike rolls his eyes at the kid, nodding over in his direction. "Your crush is here," he teases Brittany, chewing absently on his toothpick.

"Stop foolin', Mike," she says, scoping the place out casually for any – _please God_ – other available seats to no avail.

The Bomber seems to be especially crowded this afternoon.

"We can always make some poor schmuck hit the sticks?" Mike offers, though he doesn't look entirely into that suggestion and neither does Brittany.

They had a _long_ night.

Who knew lughead Russians could stay up so late after knocking back bottle after bottle of vodka like it's orange juice?

Not Brittany, that's who.

"Come on," she mumbles, dragging her feet along to where Rory's seated, Sugar sitting daintily at his side.

"Saved you a seat, Boss," Rory says proudly, tugging on his suspenders. "I knew you guys'd be in today. Word on the street is that you had another run-in with the Russians."

"Shush up, you wet sock," Mike hisses, glancing around. "You never know who could be listenin'."

"That's true," Sugar nods. "'That's how our uncle Johnny got clinked. One minute he was fishin' with his buddy Gomer and next thing you know the G-men were on him like a gold-digger on a butter and egg man."

Mike and Brittany share a confused look.

"I don't know what _that_ means," Brittany says, her eyes flashing darkly as she looks at Rory, "But if you want to get in with us, you best keep quiet about things like that."

"Things like what?"

Mike grunts and shifts lower in his seat, already beyond annoyed but Captain Noah Puckerman could care less, smirking as he twirls his billy club around. "Aww, come on now. Don't mind me. You all can keep on talkin' just like you were."

"Why are you always bothering us, Puckerman?" Brittany asks, actually curious. As far as bad guys go, she and Mike are pretty low on the totem pole. If she were a cop, she'd consider them a waste of time.

But, then again, there's also that _thing_ the copper has for her.

Add to that the fact that Mike literally stole his girl – literally; he broke into the squad car and dragged a reluctant (at the time) Quinn away – and they're at the top Captain's own personal most wanted list.

"It's just so much _fun_," he says sarcastically, scratching his shaven chin. "One of these days you two'll slip up and I'll bust ya and then we can have a…_different_ kind of fun if you know what I mean. And it's Captain Puckerman to you, Missy."

"I thought her name was something else," another voice cuts into the conversation. "Something equally as girly like Sunshine or Candy."

"Can it, Hudson," Noah grumbles, rolling his eyes.

"Ooh, I know," Finn's eyes light up, his uniform hat fallen into his eyes as he snaps his fingers in remembrance, "It's Brittany."

They all share a brief laugh at Finn's oafishness and Noah's increasing impatience with it.

"Ugh," he grunts, turning to go. "I've got my eye on you," he adds in warning, glaring at the pair in turns before finally taking his leave.

***o*O*o***

"Wait, I've got one," Sam says with a mouth full of meat. "Ann Sothern. She's the cat's meow, huh?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Santana and Rachel laugh amusedly at his enthusiasm, having run through the gauntlet of movie stars.

"She's too…done up. Almost, overdone," Santana says, mostly placating him because he seems so determined.

"Alright, alright," Sam nods, absorbing the information. "So, you're more into the classic beauties. Your average woman. Someone like…Rachel."

Rachel scoffs and Santana rushes to say, "Oh gosh no," then laughs at the look of incredulity that washes across Rachel's face. "Nothing against you cousin, but I'd have to punch holes in my ears if I were with you. How ever do you manage, Samuel?"

Sam smirks. "Ear plugs," he deadpans, chuckling when Rachel's jaw drops.

"Rude," she grumbles, glaring at the both of them. "Absolutely rude. Actually, I think Santana prefers sweet, lovely girls that are nothing like the over the top, ostentatious women _you_ just named," Rachel sniffs, looking positively contrite. "Perhaps that's _your_ type, Samuel."

"Aww, Rachel. You're as cute as a bug's ear when you get jealous like that."

"I'm not jealous. I just know for a fact that Santana has better taste in women than that."

Santana shifts in her seat. "Can we please stop talking about this?"

Rachel gasps suddenly, turning to Sam. "What about Tina Cohen-Chang?"

Sam chokes on his drink, his eyes quickly finding the person Rachel's referring to. "I don't think so. That's just dingy."

"Why not? She's pretty and she's sweet," Rachel effuses, motioning for Santana to have a gander at the girl as well. "She and Santana would make a lovely couple. Plus they'll have the added advantage of being _exotic_."

"Aren't you forgetting one little thing?"

Rachel frowns. "No. I'm positive she likes girls because we had that sleepover and there's no way one person can accidentally grope another person _that_ many times."

Santana and Sam gape at her.

"Her brother, Rachel," Sam states in a monotone voice, munching away on a fritter. "I'm talking about her brother."

"Oh," Rachel shrugs demurely, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, yes, there's that."

Sam looks at her pointedly. "_Yes_, there's that."

"What's – what's wrong?" Santana says, confused. "Who's her brother?"

***o*O*o***

Brittany cedes control of the pinball machine, gesturing for Mike to have a go and he untangles himself from Quinn long enough to attack the machine.

"I'm gonna get us some pie," she tells him, and he nods.

"Extra whip, please Britt," Quinn asks sweetly, smiling a dimpled smile at her as her hands wrap more tightly around Mike and Brittany just shakes her head with a laugh at how unbelievably cute and in love the two are.

She reckons she'd look just as cute if she ever took to shackin' up with a dame.

Too bad there aren't too many gals like her around.

(Well, there is Mike's sister but the girl might as well be considered Brittany's sister as well with as much time they've spent together. Plus Mike would probably wring her neck – or probably just tickle her 'til she cries – if she ever did so much as look twice at Tina.)

Brittany doesn't dress like most girls – it really doesn't make sense for her to. She blends a lot easier with the rougher of crowds in slacks and a button up and jacket. Sometimes, at first glance, people mistake her for a man, but, Brittany's mostly shrugs it off. None too concerned with what people think about her.

She just does what she likes for the most part.

This usually means staying out as late as she wants to, dancing with whomever she pleases, and getting the biggest slices of pie she can manage.

She's waiting for Artie to come back with the pie when she notices her.

She sees her straight away, her eyes widening comically when she takes the other girl in.

Brittany quickly turns her head and checks her breath discreetly before attempting to speak but all she manages is a cough.

The girl turns to look at her at the noise and they watch each other quietly, Brittany offering up a sheepish smile and a soft "Hey."

"Hi."

"So…um, you new around here?"

The other girl's grin turns rueful. "Is it that obvious?" she asks, peering up at Brittany through lowered eyelashes.

Brittany scrambles to clarify. "No. It's just…I'm here a lot so I notice when people don't belong here." Her eyes widen again. "Not that you don't belong here. You do. I mean, you can stay. If you want."

Brittany's face feels like it's on fire as she continues to ramble on and on and it looks like this girl is going to laugh right in her face.

Brittany feels like such a crumb.

Even more so when the girl chuckles, turning back to the counter as her drink finally arrives. "That's good to know."

She moves to leave and Brittany rolls her eyes a little at herself before calling out, "It was nice talking to you!"

Santana stops, head turned back over her shoulder. "You too," she says with a small smile, before resuming her walk away.

"Hey Britt." Mike whines, sidling up next to her, "What's takin' so long? Quinn's goin' on and on about that pie."

His eyes follow where Brittany's looking, catching a glimpse of the retreating Santana. "Who's that?"

Brittany shrugs, a quiet, mysterious smile on her face. "I don't know."

But she's gonna find out.

***o*O*o***

Santana quietly carries the shopping basket, watching with an amused smile as Rachel flits about the aisles like a hummingbird, inspecting items and putting them back in their proper place.

"I think I'm going to bake cookies this evening," Rachel announces suddenly, darting back to the baking goods. "Yes. That's what I'll do."

"Okay," Santana murmurs lowly, not entirely as enthusiastic as Rachel.

"Samuel loves when I bake him cookies," Rachel informs her conspiratorially, with as much covertness one would require if exchanging 'commie' secrets. "He calls me his 'pudding pie' when I do."

"I'll bet he does," Santana says, picking at the non-existent lint on her sweater.

Rachel's lips press into a thin line as she looks her cousin over. "Does it…bother you when I speak of Sam this way, Santana? Is it because you don't have a steady?"

Santana outright laughs at that but sobers when Rachel's face falls. "It's not…I don't mind not having someone right now, Rachel. It's just…I've never been very good at the boy-talk because," she glances around, lowers her voice, "I don't like boys."

"Oh," Rachel says, brightening instantly. "We can talk about girls then, if you'd like. I've always admired the spirit of Judy Garland. She's such a bawdy woman. Almost improper."

"Rachel?"

"Most people would call her rude and unpleasant."

"Rachel-"

"But she doesn't give a…" Rachel charges on to say before stopping herself, "…darn."

Santana chuckles a little. "I admire greatly your enthusiasm Rachel but_ please_, stick to the boy-talk."

Rachel shrugs, none too bothered. "As you wish."

***o*O*o***

Mike flips a quarter between his fingers, back and forth, as he waits for Brittany to make a final selection.

"I don't get it," she pouts, holding up two identical melons. "How can you tell whether or not one is riper than the other when they all look exactly the same?"

Mike shrugs, bored. "Take both."

"But I only need one," she says in exasperation, looking the one in her right hand over again, before raising it up eye level. "Okay, Mr. Melon, it's just you and me. If I eat you are you going to be both delicious and nutritious or bland like a rubber band?"

The old lady next to her glances at her with confused eyes, probably at both her attire and the fact that she's talking to fruit.

Brittany smiles widely at her. "Which one?" she asks, holding the fruit out to her but the woman hurries away, glaring at her.

"Why does that always happen?" she mumbles, looking at Mike dejectedly.

"Because, Britt, people don't exactly _like_ people like us," he tells her as gently as possible.

"Yeah, but I'm like, off-duty now or somethin'," she says, tossing both melons into the basket and following him to check out. "I'm just Brittany, now."

"She doesn't know that," he says, scratching his neck, eyes casually surveying the people around them. "Hey, isn't that the gal from the diner? The one you were makin' eyes at?"

"I wasn't makin'-," Brittany starts distractedly but looks around and sure enough it is her, standing nearby and chatting with another girl, her back to them. "Uh huh," Brittany nods, suddenly going stock-still. "That's her."

"Well, whaddaya waitin' for?" Mike says, pushing her out of line and taking the basket to pay for the items. "Go on, champ."

He pushes Brittany in the girl's general direction, making her stumble clumsily into a man and his wife.

"Watch it," the guy says, straightening out his sport coat angrily and Brittany's raising her hands apologetically before she can think about it.

The commotion, though, has caught the attention of the girl and her friend, and they both turn curiously toward the sound, the girl's eyes quickly finding Brittany's.

Brittany coughs, shuffling around the married couple and raising her hand in greeting, bounding toward the pair with an exuberance and grace that feels kind of surreal considering how nervous she is.

"Hi there," she goes on to say, her grin wide but before she can exactly reach the object of her attention, the shorter of the duo steps in her path.

"What do you think _you_ are doing?" she says, her voice quivering just a tad but she stands her ground.

"I'm…saying hello?" Brittany manages to say, her face morphed in confusion. Her eyes dart to the other girl, but she's no longer paying her any attention, her own confused face focused on the tiny person in front of her.

"You've no right," she nearly hisses, actually pointing a finger up into Brittany's face and Brittany's eyes cross momentarily. "We're decent young women and you're a…a…" she narrows her eyes, "…you know what you are."

Brittany feels a sting of shame for just a moment before her anger rises and she quirks a challenging eyebrow, her cautious grin turning into something a bit more sinister. "I don't think I like the way you're talking to me."

"So what're you going to do? _Shoot_ me?"

Brittany actually flinches at the words, her eyes darting up to catch brown ones staring questioningly back at her.

"I'm…" Brittany goes to say, but her mind goes completely blank. She has no words; no explanation. "I'm…I'm not. I wouldn't-"

"Rachel," the mystery girl says quietly, tugging on the shorter one's arm, "Rachel, what's-"

"Let's get out of here, Santana," Rachel, says, reaching behind her for the other girl's – Santana's – hand, looking at Brittany darkly as she walks away.

Brittany doesn't pay her any mind though, more concerned with the girl scampering after her, struggling to keep up because she keeps staring back at Brittany with questions in her eyes.

"Doesn't look like that went all that well," Mike says, talking through a mouthful of peanuts, holding the paper grocer's bag in the crook of his arm.

Brittany shrugs, but slowly her small frown turns into a smile.

At least she finally has a name.

***o*O*o***

As soon as they've left the market, Santana wrenches her hand from Rachel's grasp, demanding answers.

"What was all of that about, Rachel?"

"Nothing," Rachel answers shortly, "I just did you a spectacular favor is all."

"You were absolutely rude for no reason at all," Santana nearly snaps, maintaining her composure because she's aware of where they are – the people around them.

"Oh, I have reasons."

"What are they? I'm listening," Santana prompts, not appreciating Rachel's vague responses, "Who _was _that girl?"

Rachel glances around before grabbing Santana by both of her hands and pulling her onto an empty street bench. "Do you remember how Sam and I were telling you about people to avoid? The not-so-nice people in our neighborhood?"

Santana nods.

"Well, she's one of them."

Santana's eyes widen. "_Her_?" she asks, incredulous. "But she's so…so…" She wants to say _nice_ and nice people cannot possibly live such hardened lives.

She thinks back on the two occasions she's seen her and neither time did she seem particularly menacing; she seemed nothing like the horrid people Sam and Rachel had described to her when she'd first arrived. People who made a living through intimidation and fear.

People who…killed.

"That seems so impossible," she finds herself muttering instead.

"Perhaps," Rachel says with a shrug, "But it's the truth. I wouldn't get too close or really close at all if I were you. It's…_dangerous_, Santana. Promise me. Promise me you'll never speak to her again."

Rachel looks so worried, so unlike the carefree young woman of a few moments ago.

Santana makes her decision in an instant. "I promise."

Rachel breathes deeply, her face finally relaxing into a smile. "Fantastic. Now, let's hurry home. It's getting late," she says, turning to lead the way back to her house, never noticing Santana's fingers twisted behind her back.

***o*O*o***

It's been a week and Santana finds that the city of Chicago fits her like a glove.

She loves its fast pace, its din and constant droning.

The city's heart beats and it feels as if it's in sync with her own and she just opens herself up to all of it.

The new places, the new experiences…the new people.

Her uncles', Rachel's and Sam's words don't exactly fall on deaf ears; she's wary as she ventures out and about on her own, feeling her way through the streets, carving out a space in this vast place to call her own.

But she doesn't close herself off to anyone, smile inviting as she literally swims in the euphoria of finally, truly being free.

And then…

…this happens.

She feels the eyes on her right away, accustomed to stares because Santana is, by no means, a sore sight. She's beautiful; that goes without saying but…there's something more there that leave people more spellbound than usual.

It's a gift.

Her face heats up as she inspects the wares in the general store, picking up little odds and ends and examining them with a critical eye…or pretending to anyway.

The person staring is daring to come closer, building momentum it seems, for every one step they take in her direction they take two more away and Santana pretends to not notice, her dress twirling magnificently as she weaves through the shelves and shelves of merchandise.

Finally, somewhere between china patterns and doilies, the person reaches her, the wing-tip shoes straying into her line of vision first.

Admittedly, she's a little disappointed, though she expected it. Why on earth would another woman approach her? In broad daylight at that?

But when she brings her eyes up, it's not who she expects – though maybe she should've.

"Hey there," she grins, her bright blue eyes squinting a little as she does so.

Santana gasps, her breath literally taken away in shock, in recognition…perhaps even in fear.

She says nothing.

The girl takes off her hat, bowing gentlemanly before putting it back atop her head, tilted back so that her face isn't obscured in the least. "My name's Brittany S. Pierce."

Santana says nothing again, though she manages to swallow.

"Are you alright, Miss?" Brittany asks her, reaching a hand out but Santana flinches away from the contact.

"You…you shouldn't be talking to me," she says, shaking her head. "I shouldn't…I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Why ever not?" Brittany asks, a pout forming on her lips.

"Because Rachel says so," Santana says and it rings dumbly in her own ears.

"Well, that's a silly reason to not talk to someone," Brittany quips, amused now.

Santana knows why.

She hasn't exactly ended this conversation.

"And because you belong to the mafia."

Santana stands firm in that, nodding her head once and Brittany watches her curly hair bounce where it's pinned up in back.

Brittany feigns shock. "Who said?"

Santana scoffs and Brittany hides a smile behind her hand. "Um…Rachel and Sam."

"These people don't sound like they like me much," Brittany admits wryly, peering up in thought. "But, do you want to know a secret?"she asks, whispering and leaning in closer.

Santana blinks, unable or unwilling to move away. "What?" she whispers back.

"I don't think any of that matters. I don't think it matters because you like me," she says quietly then winks, pulling back and leaving the other girl in a bit of a stupor.

"See ya' around, Dollface."

"You won't," Santana says, finally finding her tongue. She whirls around just in time to see Brittany's cheeky grin ducking out of the store.

"We'll see."

***o*O*o***

"And then I says to her, I says, 'See ya' around, Dollface' and her face turned fifty shades of red."

"That's swell and all. But these cakes aren't gonna get across town by themselves," Mike says, struggling with the heavy packaging until Brittany's hands join his, righting his stance.

"How many more?" she huffs out, dropping the load into the carriage of her car, thanking high heavens for quality-crafted automobiles.

"These are the last two," Mike sighs, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm. "What're we gonna do about them?"

Brittany follows the direction of his nod, her eyes falling upon three tied up men… boys really, gagged and cinched together around one, almost rotted, wooden column.

She squints up into the filtered light of the dim warehouse – an abandoned meat-packaging plant – and shrugs. "The river's fine, this time of year," she says aloofly, as if not really caring. She turns to the young men, a small smile on her face. "You all can swim, can't ya'?"

She laughs when they all furiously shake their heads as quickly as they can. "Meh, we'll leave him here," she says, when Mike's hauled the last of their supply out of the structure, reaching up to pull down the warehouse door, ignoring the muted cries for help. "Someone'll find 'em."

***o*O*o***

Santana rouses, surprised to have fallen asleep on the sofa in the den.

The house is quiet, which means her uncles are probably still asleep and also means Rachel is, surprisingly, still asleep.

Pushing herself up so that she's braced upwards by the strength of her own slightly trembling arms, she tries to figure out why she's awake when every ounce of her being seemingly wants to drift off into oblivion and never return, but then the rapping at the front door sounds again and she instantly understands.

Groggily, she maneuvers herself into a sitting position, yawning widely but politely using her hand to obscure the un-ladylike gesture. She rises from the sofa, her muscles settling gently, and looks down at her attire, wondering if rumpled clothing and unkempt hair would look too un-presentable for an early morning visitor.

But with a shrug, she decides that she doesn't much care.

It's probably the just the milkman. After all, it is Saturday.

But when she pulls open the door, there's no milkman standing on the stoop. Just-

"Brittany," she hisses, looking back over her shoulder with wide eyes before stepping out and closing the door gently behind her, not worried about the neighbors seeing her dressed this way.

Propriety be damned.

Her uncles would have her hide if they knew Brittany was here.

"What are you doing here?" she whispers out in a rush, grabbing the other girl's forearm and forcing them into the early morning shadow of privacy, her uncles' porch provides.

"Isn't it oblivious?" Brittany grins, still not conscious of personal boundaries as she steps into Santana's bubble. "I'm here to see you."

She's not wearing a hat and for the first time since Santana's met her, her hair is uninhibited, loose and flowing like amber waves about her shoulders. Her ever present white button-up is unbuttoned, revealing a form-fitting shirt underneath that reveals the womanly curves Brittany's every-day wear easily obscures. She smells like soap and like the faintest trace of lemons, her entire being seemingly open to Santana in a way she's never seen before.

She looks like an entirely different person.

Looks can be deceiving though and Santana's wary of this fact, her eyes narrowing in anger. "I told you I didn't want to see you again."

"Even if I've brought you flowers," Brittany says with a smug grin, brandishing the aforementioned flowers with the flourish of a magician and Santana's stomach flutters beyond her control.

"Why must you be so bull-headed?" she says, trying to sound firm but it comes out breathy, her eyes never once leaving the exquisite, colorful bouquet.

Brittany shrugs, wiggling the flowers a little, "Maybe it's 'cause I'mma Taurus."

Santana finally takes them from her with a deep sigh, burying her nose into the red, yellow and white tulips and breathing deeply, "Thank you for the flowers, Brittany. They are really lovely."

Brittany smiles, brushing a lock of hair back from Santana's face, ignoring the other girl's flinch as she does so. "_You _are really lovely," she says quietly, "Even though your hair's tossed and you have dried up spittle on your chin."

Santana's eyes widen and she moves to dart back inside the house, embarrassed but Brittany promptly blocks her escape, easily winding her arms around the smaller girl from behind. "Don't be embarrassed," she whispers into the shoulder of Santana's blouse, "I think it's cute."

She peers around to find a blushing Santana, desperately holding onto the bouquet like it's the only thing anchoring her to the ground. "Gives me something to look forward to for the future," Brittany adds with a bravado she doesn't quite feel yet.

Santana's face reddens further and she spins out of Brittany's arms, trying to contain her smile and failing miserably, "You are really something, Brittany Pierce."

"Better than being nothin' at all," Brittany says sagely, tucking her hands back into her pockets now that they're empty again. She steps toward Santana again, her chin tucked against her chest as she peers at her from under lowered eyelashes. "I want to see you again," she says, her voice steady even though she feels her body tingling all over from nerves. "Do you…want to see me again?" Brittany's tentative as she asks.

Santana should say no.

She should say no and never have to worry about Brittany or her uncles or any of this good guy/ bad guy funny business.

But…she…can't.

Santana nods, slowly but surely. "I," she pauses, swallows down the lump in her throat, "I want to see you again."

Brittany beams.

It hits Santana like the force of a million suns.

"Then you will."

***o*O*o***

_Night and day, you are the one  
>Only you beneath the moon or under the sun<br>Whether near to me, or far  
>It's no matter darling where you are I think of you<em>

Day and night, night and day, why is it so  
>That this longing for you follows wherever I go<br>In the roaring traffic's boom  
>In the silence of my lonely room<br>I think of you

Rachel dances around the room, swaying to the music as it spills from the record player, clutching the stuffed teddy bear Sam just dropped off for her to her chest.

It's wearing a suit, just like the one Fred Astaire wore when he sang _Dancing Cheek to Cheek._

Santana lies on the bed, stomach down and legs in the air as she writes in her diary; her thoughts as scattered in her mind as they are on paper.

_I wonder how you know someone is 'the one' for you. Do they steal your breath away at first sight like they talk about in all the songs or can it be something as casual as a fleeting smile from across the room?_

_I met a girl the other day. _

_She…well, she kind of dresses funny. Like a boy, funny. But she's so, so, so pretty. Beautiful._

_Rachel says she's bad news._

_But her name is Brittany._

_Can anyone named Brittany actually _be _bad news?_

"Girls," Leroy calls, rapping gently on the door before sticking his head in, Rachel still lost in daydream-land. "Santana, there's someone on the horn for ya."

"For me?" Santana asks with a frown.

"Yes Ma'am. Said his name was Billy?"

Now, Santana's frown deepens, "I don't know any Billys."

"Should I…tell them they have the wrong number?"

"No. I'll be right there," she tells him, closing her diary as he leaves the room.

She clamors down the staircase, moving as quickly as her stocking feet can carry her until she's in the study, the wine-colored glass windows casting the room in green and red hues, making it look festive.

The telephone receiver is lying on the desk and she rushes to it, picking it up gingerly and pressing it to her ear.

"Hello?"

There's a rush of air on the other end of the line, something akin to a quiet sigh.

Santana strains to hear. "Hey."

It's certifiably insane how quickly she recognizes her voice.

It's also insane how she finds herself suddenly speechless. "Hi."

"I hope you don't mind me callin' but… it seems your pal isn't too keen on my talkin' to ya and… well, I really wanna talk to ya."

Santana's lip twitch up beyond her control and she falls back into the cushioned chair behind the desk, folding her legs up beneath her but she remains quiet.

"Hello? You still there?"

"I'm still here," she says, smiling at the other girl's mild panic before something dawns on her. "How did you get this number?"

"You're stayin' with the Berrys. They're not hard to find."

"Yes, about that. How'd you know I was staying with the Berrys?"

"Asked around," Brittany says coyly.

"I bet you did," Santana chuckles. "So…Billy," Santana teases, grinning when Brittany's laughter floats across the line, "what did you want to talk about?"

Brittany takes a deep breath before diving in, "First, I wanted to talk about what Rachel said – what she said about me. You see, it's not all true."

"She said you were in the mob."

"Well, yeah, that's true."

"So…"Santana hesitates, her voice quiet, "You _do_ do all those bad things?"

"I'm…no. I mean, I'm just a runner. My pal Mike and I, we move things around for the major players. That's all."

"Why do I feel like I'm not getting the whole story?"

"No foolin', Santana," Brittany says quietly, and in spite of the topic, Santana swoons just a little at hearing her name in Brittany's voice, "I'm givin' it to you straight. I've done nothin' worse than that."

"But…the people you work for have," Santana says, not making it a question because she knows it's not one.

"Look, have I heard some pretty rough things? Yes. Have I seen bad things happen before? Sure. But I've never, _ever_ taken part in any of it. It's not me, Santana. I _need_ you to know that."

Santana mulls it over, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, before she nods once, resolutely. "Okay."

"Really?"

She sounds so child-like with her enthusiasm that Santana actually laughs. "Yes, Brittany."

The other girl goes quiet and Santana wonders if she's disconnected the call for a moment before Brittany's speaking again, her tone honey sweet.

"My name from your lips puts me over the _moon_."

Santana's face flushes as she grins like a little kid with the best secret, settling further into her chair. "You're quite the romantic, _Brittany_," Santana says, making sure to put extra emphasis on her name.

"So they tell me. So tell me something about yourself. And please tell me you like girls," Brittany says, her voice playfully exasperated and Santana laughs, completely enamored.

_It's a good thing the Berrys have money_, she thinks, relaxing as she starts to talk. Because she won't be getting off the telephone anytime soon.

***o*O*o***

Brittany wrenches open the door to her Dusenberg and Mike and Quinn nearly fall out, Mike grabbing onto the headrest to keep them balanced.

"I need my car," Brittany announces, her face flushed with excitement. "Get out."

"Where's the fire, Britt?" Mike grumbles, annoyed, his hair all over and Quinn moves to straighten her blouse, her lipstick smudged.

"I've an errand to run," she says by way of explanation, even though she doesn't really owe him one.

"Oh," Mike says, settling in again. "Aces. I'll ride too."

"No!" Brittany rushes to say, eyes widening. "I mean, yeah, no, I…I'm just going to get medicine cos I…cos I got the flu? Yeah, right. I got the flu and you shouldn't come cos I might make you sick too."

Mike smirks, sharing a knowing look with Quinn.

Brittany's such a horrible liar.

"The flu, huh?"

"Yep," Brittany nods, coughing once for effect. "I feel awful."

"Aww, gee, Britt," Mike starts, feigning sympathy, "If you're that bad off maybe I should drive ya?"

Brittany's blue eyes widen comically as she mentally and physically tries to back pedal. "I don't want to trouble you-"

"No trouble at all, Pal," Mike says, tugging her into the car's backseat before clamoring over the armrest to the driver's seat. He's pulling off before she can say anything further and Quinn watches as Brittany becomes visibly more nervous, the closer they get to the pharmacy.

"I hope you don't have nothin' too serious, Britt," Quinn muses aloud, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I…I don't reckon it's too bad," Brittany mumbles distractedly, worrying her lip and constantly glancing at her pocket watch. "Just the sniffles is all."

Mike glances at the pair in the rearview mirror, turning onto the pharmacy's street and parking alongside the curb. "We'll wait out here for ya, Britt," he tells her, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

Brittany looks at him, then at Quinn, her shoulders dropping resolutely as she realizes they can see right through her. "You guys know I'm not really sick, don't ya?"

"Brittany, you're a horrible liar. It's one of the reasons Sue keeps us around," Mike says with a laugh. "Now what's the big secret?"

"Promise you won't laugh." Brittany says to them, after biting her lower lip in contemplation.

Mike shrugs, looking to Quinn with a confused frown. "Sure."

"I've…I've sorta got a girl," Brittany admits hesitantly, her eyes dropping to her lap as she awaits their responses.

"No foolin' Britt?" Mike almost exclaims, turning all the way around in the driver's seat. "That's great. Why would we ever laugh at that?"

"Because…" Brittany hedges, her voice small, "…she's related to Rachel Berry."

"Who?" Mike asks.

"Oh, Brittany," Quinn murmurs, understanding immediately, "Not the Rachel Berry whose fathers are the faces of the 'See something, say something' brigade."

"That'd be the one."

"You're shackin' up with the stool pigeons' niece? Talk about hard-boiling your own egg," Mike says, scratching his head.

"We're not…shackin' up. We haven't even smooched yet. And I'm not even sure if she's into me or not. I'm never any good at figurin' that kinda stuff."

"But…you like her?" Quinn asks, her eyes watching Brittany closely, her small grin turning into a full one when Brittany – the unnaturally calm and collected creature – literally squirms in her seat.

Brittany looks out of the car window, her hands gripping one another, her face heating up as she breaks into a shy smile. "Yeah," she admits softly, "Yeah I do."

Mike looks at her intently, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Oh, I've gotta meet this dame."

***o*O*o***

Noah watches the car tear down the street, obviously in the direction of Mike and Brittany's place.

_They're probably turnin' in until later_.

"Alright, Finny," he labors through a groan. "Let's head on down to the station and recharge our batteries. Retcon tonight." He reaches for the door handle but can't wrench it open because Finn's still standing there, unmoving.

"Hey, Puck," Finn says, like he doesn't already have his attention. "I know you're the brains of this here operation – and you never let me forget it – but how come we have to keep such a close eye on Pierce? Shouldn't we watch Sylvester? Or even Schuester?"

"No way," Puck bristles. "Sylvester's much too seasoned to slip up. Same goes for her lap dog, Schue. But, Mike and Brittany… Look, let's say you own a car repair shop," Noah starts, pulling out his notepad and penciling a crude drawing of an automobile while he and Finn lean against the squad car.

"What kind of cars?" Finn asks, holding his hand up to block the rays of the sun.

"Whaddya mean, 'what kind' of cars? Cars, man. Ones meant for driving."

"I meant," Finn shrugs, staring off into the distance, "Makes?"

Noah stares at him, incredulous. "Dodges," he finally answers, dryly, not believing it's taking this much to run through a faux scenario.

Finn lets out a low whistle. "Those are expensive."

"Would you forget about the cars?" Puck snaps through gritted teeth, slapping the bigger guy with the notepad.

"But you said –" Finn starts with a frown, but Puck cuts him off, hands raised in the air.

"Finn, just cut the gas for a minute. I'm trying to explain somethin' to ya'. Now, if you were the owner of a car repair shop, you'd have lots of guys bringing you parts and gadgets and gizmos, right?"

Finn nods through a squint. "Right. 'Cept they wouldn't be gadgets and gizmos because I'm certain those aren't actual car parts."

Noah takes a deep breath in, just looking at him. "…I'm gonna hit ya'."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Go ahead," Finn waves him on, pressing fingers behind his ears to push them out. "I'm listening."

"Okay. Well, you're the owner and you have all these guys working for you but you have this one pair – this _one _set of guys – that are consistently coming to you. Even when you don't need parts. Even when everyone else is gone….Well, those two guys, they'd have to know a lot more 'an everybody else, right? Since they're _always_ around. Mike and Brittany may be the bait we need to catch a big bass like Sylvester," Noah explains, his excitement about putting the puzzle together, tangible, especially when he catches Finn nodding along, "…d'you get it?"

Finn nods, smile widening. Then he frowns, "No."

***o*O*o***

Santana shivers slightly, waiting outside of her uncles' house and peering down the street.

She wraps her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, debating whether or not she's overdressed for a night out for the hundredth time and wondering what could be keeping Brittany.

The girl did tell her seven o'clock after all and it was five 'til seven when Santana walked out on the stoop at least twenty minutes ago.

"Where are you Brittany?" she whispers to herself, trying to settle the worried sensation she feels churning in her gut.

She hopes that nothing troublesome has happened.

She hopes Brittany hasn't changed her mind.

At long last, a car – Brittany's car, she can see the glint of the purple paint and chrome in the glow of streetlight – finally turns up the block, its headlights bright and making the shadows of the trees stretch and retract as it passes them by. It slows to a stop, just in front of her uncles' drive, but when she peers inside, she doesn't recognize the driver.

"Hi," Mike says with a wide grin, head sticking out of the window and Santana's eyes widen as she takes a step back in caution.

"Santana," a familiar voice calls from within and the back passenger door opens as Brittany slips out quickly, straightening out her clothes as she strides up to Santana. Her hair's once again tucked inside her hat, the thing sliding to cover her eyes momentarily before she rights it. "It's okay," she says, her steps slowing the closer she gets. "That's just my buddy Mike and his gal Quinn."

Santana looks beyond Brittany's shoulder at the guy and girl now snuggled into each other and leaning against Brittany's car.

"I tried to shake 'em," Brittany says, shrugging her shoulders apologetically, "But I couldn't. …Are you mad?"

"I'm not…mad, exactly," Santana says slowly, trying not to smile too brightly as Brittany's frown dissipates. "Perhaps a little disappointed. I was looking forward to spending time alone with you ever so much."

"We can still do that…later," Brittany says, shuffling just a bit closer and looking down at Santana through lidded eyes. "If you want."

Santana nods, one of her hands hesitantly yet determinedly, moving up to cup Brittany's cheek. Brittany sucks in a breath, leaning into the gentle touch ever so.

"C'mon," Mike says loudly, voice just below a yell. "You two done schmoozing or what? Let's get this show on the road," he adds, thumping the roof of Brittany's car for emphasis.

Brittany groans, rolling her eyes as Santana chuckles cutely. "Remind me to goose that twit, later, yeah?" she says playfully, one hand gently leading Santana to her car.

***o*O*o***

Mike and Quinn hold hands in the front seat as he drives. They're quiet…for now, and Brittany's grateful for the silence.

It gives her enough time to put Santana at ease.

"Hey," she says gently, walking her fingers across the empty space of seat between them to poke at Santana's thigh, "You ever been to a drive-in before?"

"Is that where the movie's on these giant screens and you watch it outdoors?" Santana asks, her voice colored with wonder.

"Uh huh," Brittany grins. "I take it you've never been to one."

Santana shakes her head, "I'm from Ohio, remember? There's nothing there nearly as exciting as what the city has to offer."

"I don't know, Santana," Brittany says with a wry grin. "Ohio's got plenty to offer if you ask me," she says, given the girl across from her a pointed look.

Santana blushes, tucking her hair behind her ear as she looks down momentarily to hide it. "You're sweet," she murmurs quietly. "Almost too sweet," she adds, suddenly regaining her composure, "Should I be worried?"

"Nah, I wouldn't fret," Mike speaks up, eavesdropping like a pro. "I've never seen Britt here so dizzy with a dame before. I reckon your worries would be all out whacky."

"_Mike_," Brittany hisses, reaching up to smack him about the head and he chuckles, rubbing the spot. Santana bites back a grin as Brittany settles back against the seat, pinching the top of her right index finger with the left – bit of a nervous habit.

"Ignore Michael, Santana," Quinn says, turning around in her seat to look at her. "He has a tendency to go bumping his gums from time to time."

"Aww, Santana knows I'm just messin'. 'Sides, even if I weren't I prolly wouldn't be far from the truth. Britt's been cheesing like a newborn babe full off the tit," Mike continues to tease, laughing every time a red-faced Brittany kicks the back of his seat.

She's not looking at Santana because she's beyond embarrassed. That is, until Santana's hand crawls into her own, squeezing once gently to get her attention.

"It's okay," Santana tells her, just loud enough so only Brittany hears, "I like you too."

***o*O*o***

"You gonna be a sour puss all evenin' now, huh?" Quinn asks him playfully, nudging his side with her arm as they all walk back to the car after having visiting the refreshments stand.

It's Saturday night so the Cascade drive in is packed to max capacity, all guys hanging out with their gals for the most part. Every so often there'll be a car with a family inside, but folks have long since conceded that on Saturday nights, the Cascade belongs to the young people.

"It ain't fair is all. This is what happens when you hang around a bunch o' dames. You get roped into watching some sappy lovey crap," Mike grumbles, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "When'd you turn into such a girl, Britt?"

"Always been a girl, Mike. At least, that's what the doctors told my folks," she quips, and they all laugh as Mike stomps on ahead of them, still grumpy.

"Mikey," Quinn calls after him, hiking up her skirt a bit so that she can run. "Mikey, stop being such a wet blanket."

"I hope he's not too upset," Santana manages through her giggles, shooting an apologetic look toward the couple before turning to Brittany, who shrugs it off.

"Quinn'll take care of Mike," she says, smoothly, picking a few dots off her sheet of candy buttons. "Mmm," she mumbles, swallowing down a few after she cracks them between her teeth, "These things are so good. I like 'em cos it's like tasting a rainbow."

"You always say the most delightful things, Brittany," Santana tells her, almost in awe. "It's hard to believe that you're the same person meandering about with hardened criminals."

Brittany scrunches up her entire face. "I don't know what that means."

"It _means_," Santana says, grabbing her hand and leaning against Brittany's arm as they walk, "I think you're remarkable, Brittany Pierce."

"Oh, San," Brittany sighs, smiling as she clutches the hand in her grip tighter, "You say the most delightful things."

***o*O*o***

By the time they reach Brittany's car, Mike and Quinn are already sprawled across the back seat, seemingly picking up right where they left off from earlier, leaving an uncomfortable Brittany and Santana with the option of trying to ignore them from inside of the car or outside.

Brittany turns away from the curiously shaking vehicle, questioning eyes on Santana. "Wanna sit on the roof?"

"Sure. Can you help me up?"

"Sure thing, Dollface," Brittany nods, taking off her jacket and draping it over the top of the vehicle before grasping Santana about the hips, her face heating up once she realizes what she's doing.

"On three, alright?" she says, readying herself as Santana nods. "One, two…three."

She hikes Santana up onto the car, waiting a moment for the girl to settle in before hoisting her own self up next to her.

"Sweet," Brittany says, folding her legs underneath her. "This view is tops. I can see the picture much better from up here."

"But we can't hear it though," Santana says, unconsciously turning her body toward the other girl.

"That's the best part," Brittany grins conspiratorially. "We can make up our own movie. Here, I'll be John Barrymore and you can be Greta."

"Okay," Santana smiles, earnestly intrigued.

"Say, Doll, what's got you looking so worried?" Brittany asks, her voice about three octaves deeper than usual. Her eyes sparkle when Santana laughs, tickled.

"Why, I've no idea where my husband has gotten to," she says, dramatically fanning herself and batting her eyelashes. "I fear he may have run off with his assistant."

"Man's a fool I say," Brittany gruffs incredulously, "A complete git to leave a pretty broad like you twistin' in the wind."

Santana's demeanor shifts suddenly, one eyebrow rising as she regards Brittany with a bit of a smirk. "I'm no broad, good sir. And you'd be wise not to forget that," she drawls, the words tumbling out of her mouth and entrancing the girl seated across from her.

Brittany tips her hat, gulping. "'kay," she whispers in her own voice, eyes never leaving Santana's.

Santana's smile softens, just a small twist of her lips, and she brings her hands up to grip the brim of Brittany's bowler, the hat tipped far back on the blonde's head. "You're such a pretty girl, Brittany," she says quietly, surprised by the ease with which the words are spoken. She's thought it on many an occasion, but most of the time she'd imagined herself shy and uncomfortable as her mind's eye self opened up to Brittany. Now, though, the real, true Santana has no qualms with lying bare what she knows to be true.

Brittany is, no doubt, a pretty girl.

She removes the hat, lifting it quickly but with care all the same and setting it down beside them.

"So, so, so, so pretty," she continues, reaching up again to trail the fingers of her trembling left hand down Brittany's cheek.

"Santana," Brittany breathes, her eyes fluttering shut as Santana's fingers linger at her chin.

"Hmm?"

"Can I-" she croaks out, clears her throat a little then tries again, "Can I kiss you?"

She can't see her but she feels like she can sense her nod. "I really wish you would."

And that's where it happens, on the roof of that car in the middle of that drive-in theatre.

That's where Brittany and Santana fall in love.

***o*O*o***

Brittany cuts the engine, pulls the key out of the ignition and jumps out of the car before Santana can do much more than unbuckle.

She smiles unbridled when Brittany rounds to the passenger door, pulling it open with a flourish. "May I help you out?" she asks, doing her best to sound cordial.

Santana chuckles, taking the proffered hand and gasps lightly when she's easily pulled to her feet with a quickness that catches her off-guard and sends her tumbling into Brittany's arms…which, judging by the enormous grin on Brittany's face, is exactly what the blonde was anticipating.

"Hey there," she grins, bringing her arms round so that she's holding Santana close to her.

"Hi," Santana says through a chuckle. "I thought you were gonna walk me to my door."

Brittany pretends to think it over, nodding. "I _was_ gonna do that but I thought cuddlin' might be better."

"You and me both," Santana says, snuggling closer to Brittany. It feels so nice, being close to her, Brittany's jacket draped over her shoulders and her arms holding her tight.

Brittany sighs and eventually loosens her grip, making sure to grab Santana's free hand before they drift too far apart. "C'mon," she says gently tugging her up the walkway to the darkened home. The porch light's still on though, so someone's awaiting Santana's arrival – late as it is.

"Brittany," Santana says quietly, turning her back to the door and fixing the girl standing before her with a tender gaze, "Tonight was divine. Thanks for inviting me."

"Thanks for accepting the invitation," Brittany responds easily, slipping in closer. "Although, the night doesn't officially end until I get a good night smooch," Brittany adds, moving in swiftly to capture one but Santana's hand on her shoulder stops her in her tracks.

"Britt, we're…" she trails off, gesturing back to the house, hoping that Brittany gets what she means. She wants to kiss her good night, very badly, but Rachel or her uncles might see and she doesn't want to have to deal with their judging and berating them more so than they already do.

It's bad enough she and Brittany are friends, but, _girlfriends_?

They might send her back on the first train to Ohio.

"It's okay," Brittany says after a while, understanding. She bends and drops a chaste kiss to the apple of Santana's cheek, her thumb sweeping over the spot as if to keep it there with her touch.

She moves to leave, still wearing a smile but before she can go Santana murmurs out a small, quick prayer and grasps her face, clamping her mouth shut a mere second before she seals her lips against Brittany's, pressing quickly.

Brittany's shock fades rapidly and her hands fall to Santana's waist, pulling her close as the kiss grows longer, deeper.

At long last (and yet still unbearably too soon) Santana pulls away, keeping her forehead pressed against Brittany's as she tries to calm her breathing. "Good night, Brittany," she whispers out.

"'Night, Santana."

Brittany waits until she's safely inside; walking backwards down the pathway until the door shuts behind her.

As soon as it has, she brings her fingers up to her lips, the skin still buzzing with the memory of their kiss. Giddily, she rushes over to the driver's seat, starts the car and drives off, still feeling like she's floating, everything else around her taking a back seat to this feeling of euphoria growing inside her.

…Including the two men following her from a few car lengths back.

***o*O*o***

Santana tiptoes up the stairs, her feet making nary a sound as she scoots into the bedroom she shares with Rachel.

She's surprised to find her cousin sleeping, back rising and falling as she inhales and exhales quietly.

She'd been absolutely certain that she'd get home and her cousin would interrogate her like a Roman Catholic inquisitor.

But Rachel does nothing of the sort, and Santana pays her no mind, still completely wrapped up in her memories of the evening – her perfect night out with the perfect girl.

She sighs, changing into her nightgown and sliding into the fold-out bed, the springs creaking just a little in protest. Her head presses into the pillow as she stares up at the ceiling, wondering and hoping that Brittany will call her up tomorrow or come see her or do any of another million things.

She just thinks about Brittany.

And that's when Rachel pops up over her, hovering in the air with her night cap on, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You were out with her, weren't you?"

"Rachel-"

"Are you asking for trouble?" Rachel says, keeping her voice low which manifests to something just over a murmur for her. "Did I not warn you about dealing with people like her?"

"But she's not like that, Rachel," Santana insists, sitting up in the cot. "She's not. She's wonderful and funny and-"

"Do you want to know the real reason why I have two dads?" Rachel interrupts, her eyes growing misty. "My mother didn't give me up for adoption Santana. She was killed. My father, he was…one of them and he got into some really bad business with some really bad people and to teach him a lesson, they didn't go after him," Rachel says brokenly, holding herself as her eyes seem to drift away into a memory. "No, they killed my mother. They'd rather have him suffer for a lifetime and ruin a family to prove a point. Those are the kinds of people they are. Now, I don't know what she's told you-"

"She's not," Santana says, shaking her head but she can't bring herself to utter the words. "She can't be."

Rachel shrugs, not knowing what else to say. "It's what they all are. In the end."

***o*O*o***

_Santana_.

Just thinking her name sends Brittany into a tailspin and she can't tell what's right-side up and what upside down anymore.

She lies back against the roof, crossing her legs at the ankles as she stares up at the sky.

"Want a night cap?" Mike asks her, joining her after having turned down the bed for Quinn. He holds out the bottle of scotch and two tumblers and Brittany takes them as he climbs out of the attic window, his open shirt billowing as the wind catches it.

"Nice night," he breathes, leaning back and mimicking Brittany's position, balancing the bottle on a few of the roofing tiles.

"Mmm," Brittany hums, sitting the glasses down as well. "Hey Mikey?"

"Yeah, Britt?"

"You ever want to just…leave?"

"…and go where?"

Brittany shrugs, still star-gazing, "I dunno. Doesn't really matter, I guess. Just as long as it's not here."

Mike smirks. "Lemme guess. You lookin' to elope?"

Brittany laughs loudly at that, smacking the back of her hand against his stomach, "No. I was just wonderin' is all. I mean, don't you ever want better than this?"

Mike's quiet for a moment, twisting off the cap to the liquor and taking a mighty swig before he answers, "This is all right, Britt. We've got a place. We've got girls," he says, nudging her companionably with his elbow and laughing when she smiles softly in return. "We're getting by, Britt. The best way we know how to."

"I guess so," she shrugs, her voice noncommittal. "But don't you want more? I just feel like we're…we're like…peanut butter n' jelly."

Mike laughs. "What?"

"No wait," Brittany says, sitting up and focusing on him with serious eyes, "We're like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And, yeah, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nice and it's normal and it's familiar. But, sometimes, you just….you want something _better_. You want a steak and potatoes y' know?"

Mike nods slowly. "No."

Brittany sighs again, annoyed that she can't explain what she means clearer, "I'm just saying…there's nothing special about peanut butter and jelly."

"We're just a couple of bottom-feeders from the sticks, Britt. This big ol' world don't just open up door for folks like us. And if we reach for more n' they're willin' to let us have, they take what little we got away," Mike says, feeling the buzz but still speaking with clarity.

"I like peanut butter and jelly," he murmurs, turning his face into his arm and closing his eyes, content to pass out on the roof.

Brittany hears him and knows that maybe he's right but still a part of her hopes; hopes that one day she _will_ make it out of here.

***o*O*o***

"Fathers," Rachel calls, clamoring down the stairs, Santana right on her heels. "I have something to tell you."

"If you breathe a single word of this to them," Santana hisses before they both skitter to a halt in front of the two men, Leroy polishing silver and Hiram partaking in the morning paper.

"What is it, Rachel?" Hiram asks expectantly, his eyes flitting back and forth between one girl and the other.

Rachel falters, Santana's pleading eyes tearing at her resolve faster than she'd anticipated. "N-nothing," she stammers, uncharacteristically and Santana breathes a sigh of relief when Rachel seemingly decides to let it go. "Actually…" Rachel continues with a bit of an unladylike smirk. "Santana has something she'd like to tell you."

Her uncles focus their attention on her, expectant, and Santana's stomach knots up uneasily, fearing their reactions.

"I've…" she starts, twisting her hands together nervously under their light scrutiny, "I've earned the affections of a suitor."

Leroy reaction is immediate, and he smiles good-naturedly, genuinely pleased for the girl. "That's fantastic, Santana. I knew it wouldn't be long until you'd caught someone's eye. You're a very lovely girl and it does without saying that you're gorgeous, honey," he rambles, and Santana's pleased, though still on edge because Uncle Hiram is clearly who Rachel takes after, the man looking noticeably less thrilled than his partner.

"Who is it?" he asks and Santana's already rapidly thumping heartbeat kicks up a half-step.

Her face contorts, her features taking on a pleading notion, "Please don't be cross with me Uncle. After all, one has little control when it comes to matters of the heart."

Hiram folds his newspaper back, sets it down on the table and adjusts the thick lenses as they settle a little lower on his nose than normal. "Santana, who is this person?" he asks again, his voice steady and quiet, almost like he knows the answer and is waiting for confirmation before he explodes.

She lowers her head, defeated. "Brittany Pierce," she murmurs, and even now, she can't stop herself from smiling a little.

"No," Hiram says, straightening his glasses, "Absolutely not. Do you hear me, young lady? Your mother would – your _father_ would? My head would be set on a pike if he ever caught wind of you cavorting with such an unsavory character. She…You poor thing, you probably don't even know, but she is a member of the mafia."

"I know this," Santana says, her eyes determined, "But she's not like the rest of them. I know her. I've… gotten to know her. She's different."

"Is that who – is that who's been calling here on the phone?" Hiram asks, the puzzle pieces righting themselves in his mind's eye.

"She knew you'd never allow me permission to talk to her otherwise."

"And she'd be right," Hiram says, loudly. His voice much louder than Santana's ever experienced. "No, Santana. This ends here."

Santana feels her eyes turn hot, liquid fire pooling into them. "You…you can't-"

"Hiram," Leroy says, placing a calming on his partner's arm, "Perhaps we're being a little too hasty in our objections-"

"I certainly don't think so. And need I remind you what _those_ people have done to _this_ family," Hiram hisses.

"But this Brittany girl hasn't," Leroy counters, "You can't just write people off at first glance, Hiram. The world doesn't work that way. What if you'd done that with me when we met? When I was pretending to be affianced to cousin Ida for appearances' sake?"

Hiram sighs, fighting an eternal battle and Santana watches in silence, hopeful that her side with turn out victorious.

"People don't always do what they want to do to survive. They do what they _have _to," Leroy says gently, giving his husband and small smile when Hiram meets his gaze again, "Give the girl a chance."

Hiram sighs again, this time turning to look at Santana. "I need to meet her."

***o*O*o***

Brittany leaps over the couch, landing with a quiet plop next to a lightly dozing Mike, the day's newspaper folded over his face to keep the light out.

She snatches it away.

"I wanna ask her to be my gal," Brittany says excitedly, rattling the pages, "But it's gotta be classy, Mikey. Girls like Santana only deserve the best."

"Just ask her, Britt," Mike groans, blindly reaching to get the makeshift cover back. He'd been trying to catch a little shuteye before they have to go on a run, "You know she's sweet on you too."

"But I want it t' be romantic. Take her somewhere nice," Brittany insists, shaking his arm to try to jumpstart his wakefulness. "C'mon Mike. What'd you do when you asked Quinn?"

"Who're you foolin', Britt? Quinn asked me," he laughs, still half-asleep.

"Mike," Brittany warns, at her rope's end with him and he finally straightens up, blinking his eyes owlishly to get them to focus.

"Alright, alright. Don't get your knickers in a bunch. I'm stone serious though, Britt. Quinn asked me to be her beau. Just, flat out asked me. Right as I was pumping gas at Ol' Man Lincoln's crude station."

Brittany crinkles her nose at that, "I don't wanna smell like gasoline when I ask her."

"No, that's not what I'm saying," Mike explains, ever patient with Brittany, "Maybe you ought to ask the girls? Quinn's real good with words and I'm sure Sugar's up to par when it comes to matters of the heart. After all, she's always wantin' to drag us to those smoochin' pictures."

"But Quinn and Sugar don't know nothin' about romancing other girls."

"But they know what girls like. There's no one better to ask really."

***o*O*o***

Brittany nervously brushes down her suit coat, stepping around the car and onto the curb before doubling back to check out her reflection in her car's window one more time.

She feels kind of ridiculous without her derby, like her face can't quite cope with all the exposure, but it's too late to rethink that now but she'll definitely give second-thought to any of Quinn's advice from here on.

"_Maybe I should wear my hair down," Brittany says, looking at her reflection in Quinn's vanity mirror. "She likes it that way."_

_She smiles shyly when Quinn and Sugar both look at her oddly – Brittany hardly ever wears her hair down._

"_Brittany, Brittany, Brittany," Quinn tsks, shaking her head in mock disapproval. "You're a smitten kitten, you know that? Cupid's gone and hit you with two arrows."_

_Brittany's face reddens further and she looks away, embarrassed. "I want to do this right," she admits, quietly. She shrugs, "I want to be perfect for her."_

_Quinn watches her, sharing a quick questioning glance with Sugar who nods once in response. "Then you should ditch the hat, too."_

Exhaling deeply, she loosens up her shoulders, reaching inside her car for the bottle of sparkling cider she'd brought for the Berrys and starting the suddenly mile-long trek to the door.

***o*O*o***

Santana's stomach is flipping over like griddle cakes and it only gets worse the closer she gets to the time.

Her uncles are carrying on like normal; Uncle Hiram fretting over the placement of this or that trinket, while Uncle Leroy busies himself with dinner.

Rachel, however, Santana notes, has taken to pacing like a tiger and glaring out of the living room window with the veracity of a vulture (Santana smiles at herself unintentionally, all of the animal references Brittany makes must be rubbing off on her), her opinion on their budding relationship and Brittany not changed in the least in spite of what Sam or Santana or even her dads have to say.

When the grandfather's clock in the living room finally ticks by that crucial hour, Rachel explodes.

"She's late. Just like I expected," she gloats, rounding to look at Santana and her dad. "What kind of person leaves a girl to wait? It's rude. Just-"

The door chimes, cutting Rachel off.

"I'll get it," Hiram nearly sings, darting to the door before Santana can even move.

Clearly, his interest in the trinkets was simply a ruse.

He opens their door, just as Santana (and Rachel) approach, her ears picking up on Brittany's voice immediately.

"Evening Sirs. My name is Santana Lopez and I'm here for Miss Brittany Pierce. Oh, darn it. I mixed that up, didn't I? I meant, my name is Brittany Pierce and I'd be ever so grateful if you'd permit Miss Santana Lopez to accompany me this fine evening," the girl rushes out, nary taking a breath through all of it or looking up from the door stoop.

Santana bites back a smile before stepping out of her hiding space, standing just behind her uncle – where Brittany can _just_ see.

"Well, it is very nice to meet you, Brittany," Hiram says but Brittany's not paying him any mind – all her thought power concentrated on the gorgeous smile aimed in her direction and the gorgeous girl it belongs to.

Santana's wearing a deep purple dress, the shoulders rounded in the new style instead of the traditional square. Her hair is pinned back with a butterfly clip, not a single stand out of place until it spills out of the back in tightly coiled ringlets. Earrings, pearl, highlight her tiny, adorable ears and the accompanying necklace and bracelet contrast starkly with her dark-complexioned skin.

In short, she looks beautiful.

"Hey there," Brittany murmurs, barely aware she's speaking.

Santana smiles, wide and bright, "Hello, Brittany."

"Golly, you look…wow," Brittany breathes, unable to look away, her hand almost slack on the bottle of cider.

Santana giggles like a little school girl, "Thank you." She looks pointedly at her Uncle, awaiting his permission before leaving, "Can we leave now, Uncle Hiram?"

"Of course, ladies. Of course," he smiles, completely thrown by the genuineness of the girl before him – finding it hard to believe that this same person could be a hardened criminal. He waves them off but Rachel's hand shoots out from behind him, grabbing the cuff of Brittany's shirt.

Brittany's wide blue eyes flash at the girl before she relaxes, "Yes?"

"Do be careful with my cousin, Ms. Pierce," she warns, trying to look as threatening as she can, which isn't very considering she's wearing a baby doll dress and most likely stands eye-level with Brittany's knees.

Still, the blonde girl winks at her good-naturedly steering Santana away on her arm. "The carefulest," she quips, meaning it immensely even though she's wearing a sly grin.

"Someone's family is mightily worried about them going out to dinner," Brittany teases, leading the girl to her car.

"I'm fairly certain their worries are contingent upon what you do for a living, Brittany."

"Continent? Like a breakfast?" she asks, confusion plain on her face as she opens the passenger door for Santana.

Santana chuckles, stepping inside, "Not quite, Brittany."

"I'm sorry," Brittany sighs, pausing before closing the door behind her whilst staring at the pavement. "I'm not too bright, sometimes," she points a finger to her temple, "My thinker doesn't really work right."

"Your thinker works fine," Santana refutes, staring genuinely up at the other girl, "And don't let anyone tell you any different."

Brittany's eyes sparkle almost as much as her smile, "You think?"

"I _know_," Santana assures her, chuckling a little when Brittany closes the door with so much enthusiasm that it rocks the car's cab.

"I cannot wait to start this date."

***o*O*o***

"Alright, they're finally leavin'," Puck says, starting the wagon back up but making sure to keep the headlights off.

Finn yawns in the seat next to him, feet still kicked up on dashboard. "I don't understand what we have to do this for. Brittany's probably not gonna be movin' anything with her girlfriend in the car," he mumbles tiredly, voice distorted behind a yawn.

***o*O*o***

"Eees zat them?" Alexi points his grubby finger in front of Ivan's face. "It ees, eesn't it?"

"Damnit, Alexi," Ivan snaps, "I can't see anything but your big, fat hand."

Alexi pulls his hand back and Ivan squints through the darkness, recognizes the persons by gait alone. "That's them."

"Well," Alexi starts, snapping out the cylinder of his pistol and spinning it, verifying it's full of ammunition, "Shall vee?"

"Let's go," Ivan sneers, leaving the car running as he parks a short distance away from the restaurant.

***o*O*o***

"Now," Brittany starts shyly, holding out her arm for Santana to loop around as they walk to the restaurant's entrance, "I wanted to take you someplace extra nice but I don't have a whole lot of money." Her face burns as she admits this but Santana just smiles and tugs her closer and Brittany relaxes again. "So, this isn't the best fancy restaurant in town but it's a lot more swell than _The Bomber_."

"Brittany," Santana laughs, her eyes shining as she regards the other girl, "I don't care where we go. As long as I get to go there with you. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Brittany's heart soars, rendezvousing somewhere up in the sky with the moon and the stars, and, before she can stop herself, the words are just tumbling out of her.

"I love you."

Santana stops walking.

Brittany does too.

Santana stops breathing.

Brittany does too.

"I…" Santana starts, shaking her head and Brittany's chest seizes; the sting of rejection prickling through her but before Santana can utter another word, someone's hand lands hard and heavy on Brittany's shoulder.

"Brittany," Mike gasps, breathing heavily as he doubles over. "There you are. I've been looking all over for you."

"Mike?" Brittany questions, unnerved by his appearance and still rattled by Santana's silence, "Mike, what are you doing here?"

"They hit the _Shack_, Britt. The Russians hit the _Shack._"

Brittany's widened eyes harden in a heartbeat. "What?" she nearly growls and Santana blinks at the transformation.

"We can't find Kurt or Sugar," Mike continues, looking absolutely devastated. Santana gasps. "Boss wants all her guys, at headquarters, _now_."

"This…this can't be happening," Brittany murmurs, her stomach knotting up and she moves to clutch it, only then recognizing that she's still got her arm tangled with Santana's. "We…I've gotta get you somewhere safe," she says, her eyes looking at Santana but Santana doesn't think she's seeing her, "Mike, we gotta get the girls somewhere safe."

Mike nods. "Quinn brought me. She's gonna go get Blaine and they're staying at her pop's house until…" he trails off, changing the wording of his statement for Santana's sake, "…everything gets sorted out."

Santana swallows thickly, knowing exactly what he means by that and suddenly gripped with a fear so immense that her blood runs cold.

"Okay," Brittany nods and she's shaking a little, "Okay. Let's go."

Mike leads the way to Quinn's awaiting car, Brittany hurrying after and Santana following numbly, her body on auto-pilot.

When Brittany goes to untangle their arms, she finally snaps out of her daze, gripping Brittany's arm with ferocity. Brittany watches Santana's fingers clench and unclench around her forearm, not wanting to look at the other girl in case one of her worst fears is confirmed.

"I'm not gonna tell you know," Santana whispers, and Brittany finally looks up, blue eyes locking with brown. "I'm not going to tell you because it would be cheesy and romantic and like everything they put in the movies."

Brittany manages a small smile, her eyes glistening a bit, "But I wanna know."

Santana sniffs, her own eyes shining with unshed tears but she fights through it, managing one of the most heartwarming smiles Brittany's ever witnessed, "Then I guess you'd better make it back to me then."

***o*O*o***

The whole ride over to headquarters feels surreal for Brittany.

She'd been briefed on something like this happening when she first signed on with this life.

Her father's brother Vinnie, figuring this life to be the only one for a girl like her – a girl with the looks and the 'tide to get by, a girl with hootspa but not enough sense to make it on her own. So when she had to come live with them after her father died in the war and her mother, suddenly faced with the burden of single motherhood, simply cracked under the pressure, he saw no other alternative than to introduce her to this way of living.

Now, though, with the image of Santana's worried eyes following hers as Quinn's car pulled off into the night still burning bright in her mind, she wonders why she'd ever willingly followed his direction.

Now when what's left of Capone's Untouchables barely fills a room.

Now when they're standing at the brink of what appears to be a very aggressive, very hostile mob takeover.

"I don't care about those people. Those fancy boys have had it comin' to 'em for years," Sue yells, throwing the phone across the room. "I! Want! My money! Back!"

"We're workin' on it, Boss," Will assures her, ducking another airborne object, "I've got all the guys on the job."

"And yet my money is still not back in my hands. Explain to me why that is, William?"

"Well-"

"Huh?"

"We've-"

"Yeah?"

"We're trying, Boss."

Sue knocks over a chair. "Try harder!" She sighs wearily, flopping down into the lone piece of furniture in her office still left standing and pinching the bridge of her nose, her eyes widening as she finally takes notice of Mike and Brittany in the room – as if they hadn't been standing there for the last fifteen minutes.

"And, what, pray tell, are you two gawking at?" she grumbles out, glaring at the pair in turns. "Pierce – well, I still have no idea what you are but Chang, shouldn't you be off eating some kind of foo yong?"

"We'll do it," Brittany says, interrupting whatever it is Mike is about to say.

"What?" Sue snaps, annoyed.

"We'll get your money back," Brittany explains, "But only on one condition."

"You're negotiating with _me_, now?" Sue asks rhetorically, face awash with shock, "I'm sorry but I didn't realize persons with acorn-sized brains could think independently. It's going to take me a moment to recover"

"If Mike and I do this for you," Brittany starts again, ignoring her. She swallows, cutting her eyes to Mike before surging onward, "I want out."

Sue's eyes narrow. "What do you mean 'out'?" she sneers.

"I mean out," Brittany repeats, swelling with conviction, "Out of the gang. Out of this life. It's not for me anymore."

"Well, too bad," Sue barks, her temper flaring, "You don't just quit this type of job, Brittany. It's blood in and blood out."

Will's face frowns up, "No it's not."

"Shut up, William!"

"We'll get you your money back. But after this I'm packin' up and leavin' town," Brittany says, assertion and finality in her tone. She shrugs, "I'm done, Sue."

***o*O*o***

"What the hell was that back there?" Mike asks her, when they're finally out of earshot.

Brittany looks over her shoulder, "I think it's an elevator."

"Not…don't do that, Britt? I'm talkin' about what you said to Sue," he explains, impatiently, "You're out? Just like that?"

"C'mon Mikey," Brittany says, slowing to a stop, "Don't be like that."

She reaches out to grab him by the shoulders but he just shrugs away, "Don't tell me how to be. You…when we signed on for this Britt, it was you and me. Us together. And now that someone's finally managed to turn you 'bout you're ready to give up on everything we've worked hard for."

Brittany's eyes flash, "It's not…this isn't about Santana."

Mike stares at her, disbelieving.

"Okay, maybe a little bit, but, Mike. You gotta understand what I'm saying, here. Did you look at Quinn tonight?"

"Of course I did."

"I mean really _look_ at her," Brittany implores, her eyes genuine as she looks into his. "She's worried half to death over you. And that's all they do. They worry. Then we come back home, make it through another night and they breathe easier in the morning. They love us, care for us with all their hearts. But when the night time rolls by again, we keep on doin' the same things to 'em. Time and time again," she says, her voice breaking. "Maybe you can't see it 'cause you're a boy and you guys don't really notice things but the way Santana looked at me tonight, that fear that was in her eyes…It tore me up, Mike. I'm all shredded inside and I don't ever wanna make her feel that way again. We shouldn't do things like that to the girls we love."

Mike's shoulders drop, his eyebrows softening from their hard stance, "Does Quinn really look like that?"

"Every time."

Mike nods, resuming their walk. "Let's get Rory, then. We're gonna end this thing tonight."

***o*O*o***

"Blaine, will you please sit down?" Quinn uncharacteristically snaps, her nerves beyond frayed, "You're going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that. Also, you're worrying Santana half to death."

Blaine stops moving long enough to acknowledge Santana – Brittany's dame, he guesses. "You're right, Quinn," he says, shaking his head as though to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind. "This is nothing that hasn't happened before and we've all come out on the other side fine. Perhaps a little worse for the wear but nonetheless intact."

"That's right," Quinn agrees, sounding a lot more confident than she looks. "Everything's going to work out just fine." She gives Santana a gentle smile, one that screams 'Please, believe me,' but Santana's not wired that way.

And the way she sees it, they're kidnappers and armed robbers on the loose and the girl she loves is right out there in the thick of it.

"How do you manage, Quinn?" Santana asks, no, _begs_ for an answer. "How can you just _sit_ knowing that you might not ever see Michael again? It burns me up to even _think_ it."

"You mustn't think like that," Quinn says, taking the other girl gently by the shoulders, "You have to put those thoughts from your mind."

"But _how_?" Santana asks brokenly, needing to know, "How can you when the possibility is so _real_?"

"Because they love us," Quinn answers, giving the only reply that makes sense. "Because they love us and that means that they'll do anything short of selling fire to the Devil himself to make it back home to us and maybe that too." Quinn smiles ruefully, "You gotta have faith, Santana. That's all that we can do."

***o*O*o***

"This is either the swellest idea you've ever had," Mike whispers, crouching down low just behind Brittany, "or we're really just gumming the works."

"Hush," Brittany hisses, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the property. There are hatchetmen everywhere – big burly son of a guns with noticeable bulges underneath their sport coats. And she's not entirely sure how they're going to get further inside undetected – and they have to get further inside because there's no sign of Kurt or Sugar anywhere from where her eyes can see.

Even with their extra fire power – both she and Rory are carrying choppers – she really hopes it doesn't come to throwing lead.

She'd hate to return to Santana with an extra hole in her body.

"I just want you both to know," Rory starts to say, his voice oddly unsteady, "that whatever happens, you guys have been the bestest pals a guy could ask for. And if it comes down to it, I'll take the rap for you guys."

Rory looks between them and Mike and Brittany don't say anything.

"Oh. So, what? You have nothing to say to that?"

Mike tilts his eyebrows. "Thanks?"

"Don't get sore, Rory," Brittany says, "We've got bigger fish to fry. So stop being a mopey twit and keep your eyes peeled. The sooner we get out of here the better."

***o*O*o***

"See, Hudson," Puck says, peering through his binoculars into the dimly lit construction site, "What'd I tell ya? You follow the crumbs and you'll get to the big, sweet piece of cake."

"I thought you said something about cars, Captain," Finn informs him absently, more concerned with his doughnut than whatever's going on outside their squad car.

Puckerman sighs wearily, "How do you even put on your slacks in the mornin'?" he asks rhetorically, more or less muttering the question to himself.

In the distance, he can just make out Brittany's silhouette, huddled closely to Mike Chang's and Rory Flannigan's. When they'd taken off so quickly, he knew something had to be going on and his hunch is proving right, this construction site far too busy with moving bodies to be approaching midnight.

He'd always known that the outfit was large but they'd always been more reserved with dirty underhanded dealings – using the cover of nightfall for transport and code words and inconspicuous drop offs.

These men sat talking animatedly to one another, feasting on cheap hooch as they count out dollar after dollar, cake after cake.

It's only when a fresh crop of bodies turn up, carrying odd lumpy bundles that squirm in their arms, that he thinks they should call for back up.

***o*O*o***

"We're gonna have t' split up," Brittany says, making sure that her body stays hidden in the shadows. "We can cover more ground then, n' it'll be a lot harder to spot one of us at a time than all three."

Mike nods, preparing himself to crawl out of their hiding space in a direction opposite of Brittany. "Be careful," she whispers after him and he nods with a sly grin, winking once.

"Always am."

Rory looks slightly less put together, "Split…up."

"Hey," Brittany whispers, fixing him with serious eyes, "You wanted in well this is what _in _is. Bad guys and even worse ones, all trying to get to the next ladder rung before the next guy. You stay invisible and if you even glimpse the glint of a Chicago typewriter aimed in your direction you fill that bastard with daylight, ya' hear me?"

Rory swallows, nodding shakily.

"Okay, now. Go on," Brittany shoos him, pushing him lightly in the opposite direction.

She steadies her breathing, staring up into the night sky for a moment and praying that nothing unfavorable happens tonight.

_Just for tonight, God_, she thinks. _See me home to my girl. _

***o*O*o***

"This is ridiculous," Kurt shouts, struggling against his restraints, Sugar mirroring his actions from behind. "We don't know anything and we're of no use to Sue Sylvester. What possible good could come of keeping us here?"

"Yes," Sugar cries, feeling decidedly hopeless. "You have her money. What more do you want?"

Alexei laughs at her tears, a sadistically cruel smile twisting his lips. He circles the pair, and they both work to keep their eyes on him, straining against the darkness so as not to be caught unawares by a sneaky blow or something infinitely more sinister, "Vee 'ave her money, yes. But she veel only get more. Make more."

He gets eyes level with Kurt, his breath reeking of alcohol and making Kurt's nose upturn, "Vee… vant… it… _all_. All ov her holdings, all ov of her properties. Vee vant every inch ov what Sue Sylvester has to offer in our grasp. Vee vant this city."

Kurt still doesn't get it and his face shows as much, eyebrows scrunched and eyes narrowed in confusion.

Ivan clarifies.

"But for now, vee'll just take the Sugar Shack."

***o*O*o***

Brittany's somewhat surprised at what good progress she's making.

Sure, she wears men's clothing all the time and her gait is slightly more masculine than most women's but surely, even she can't compare to these lumbering, muscle-built Russia-men.

Perhaps all the vodka-drinking is affecting their eyesight.

Still, she must stay ever vigilante (she hopes that's the word) if she's to ever make it home safely.

If all goes according to plan, come this time tomorrow she'll be in a different state – her girl on her arm and a pocketful of moolah; ready to start the next chapter to her life.

(And, hopefully, their life together.)

All…she has to do is make it a little bit further-

"Vell…" someone drawls drunkenly, someone standing behind her where she can't readily see, "Vhat do we have here?"

***o*O*o***

"Something's wrong, Sam," Rachel murmurs, worriedly chewing on an already haggard finger nail, "I just know it."

Sam's weary sigh sounds on the line and Rachel rolls her eyes (a habit she's unfortunately inhabited from Santana in these few months), already knowing what he's going to say next. "You're just fretting over nothin', Rachel. They're just having a good time, is all."

But the girl doesn't believe that so, if only for the knot ever-present at the base of her belly. It feels like that time she'd been at the temple's summer picnic and a rather randy gust of wind blew her skirt clear up to the sky, giving everyone in attendance – including Rabbi Greenberg – a glimpse of her in her unmentionables if that feeling were magnified by one-hundred.

In short, she doesn't feel okay.

She doesn't feel okay about any of this and now that Santana's still unaccounted for, her worries have grown tenfold.

The low unsettling hum in the back of her throat makes Sam roll his eyes. "Would it please you if we went to check up on them at the restaurant?"

Rachel smiles, tight, but it's there. "Thank you, Sam. I'd be ever so grateful."

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs and she can hear him rustling out of bed. "I'll be there in a jiffy."

***o*O*o***

"Hey, you!" the voice yells again and Brittany freezes on instinct, an odd cold sensation prickling up her spine as her breathing stutters to a stop, "You, over there! Come and give me a hand vith this Chinaman!"

Brittany spins around, eyes wide and her stomach flips over in horror when she sees a bloodied up Mike having fisticuffs with one of the Russian men and Mike's struggling mightily too.

She blinks, wondering what move she should make exactly.

Then-

"Oof," Mike grunts out, falling to his knees with a swiftness and clutching his stomach tightly, teeth bared in a grimace.

The man makes to kick him while he's down but Brittany springs into action finally, her think-tank working quicker than she'd ever imagined it could. "Leave 'im," she says, deepening her voice and emulating Alexei and Ivan's accent the best way she can. "Let's take 'im to Popov. He'll know vhat to do vith him."

The man freezes, his careful eyes raking over Brittany's form as if contemplating whether or not he should believe her and for an incredibly tense moment, Brittany wonders if she'll have to use her gun for the first time ever, the hastily-scribbled charcoal beard making her face itch.

Mike squints up at her, hanging loosely from the burly man's grip like a limp ragdoll, his rapidly swelling eye distorting his features but she can still make out his smug grin.

Mike's always cool under the collar.

"Good idea, comrade," the man finally says, clapping Brittany hard about the shoulder and tossing Mike at her feet. "You carry heem."

***o*O*o***

Captain Puckerman can't quite believe his eyes.

He's never seen so much cocaine or so many opiates in one place before.

There are a platoon of unmarked squad cars moving into position around the complex – ready to apprehend any of Sue's henchmen that may abandon shop and attempt to flee the scene.

But he won't settle for the smoke and draw routine – no, he's worked too hard for this. He wants to catch Sylvester red-handed, smack dead center in the middle of a make-shift processing plant.

He wants to see her try to explain herself out of this one.

He wants to see Mike's face when he realizes that Noah's finally outdone him.

But when he and (unfortunately) Finn stumble upon their destination – where the men had taken the twitching human-sized sacks – he's surprised that Sue is nowhere to be found.

Just that lady boy Kurt and his boyfriend's little sister, shaking like naked jaybirds and apparently being held captive by two men he's never seen before.

"Boss," Finn whispers, scratching his temple with his loaded gun, "Who're they?"

"I don't know," Puck snaps in a hiss, keeping his body low but close enough that he can hear their quiet murmurings. "Just, shh. And lay low until Sylvester gets here."

After all, she hasto be in on this.

She just _has _to be.

Getting Quinn back depends on it.

***o*O*o***

"This is it. This is the restaurant Santana'd said they would be dining at," Rachel tells Sam, her nose pressed against the passenger side window.

It had taken a mighty bargain, but Sam managed to somehow wrestle the keys to his father's wagon away and now he and Rachel were tracing Santana's steps, hoping to locate the girl – though Sam thinks she's more than likely holed up with Brittany and enjoying herself.

His girl can be such a killjoy sometimes.

Sam pulls the car over, parking alongside the curb and Rachel nearly puts a dent in the passenger door when she swings it open into a light post.

"Rachel!" Sam yells after her, but she's already ducking inside the restaurant's doors, locating the hostess with ease.

"Excuse me, Miss," Rachel starts properly, her eyes performing a quick scan of the restaurant's patrons, "I'm looking for a Miss Santana Lopez, please?"

The hostess scans her wait list, turning up empty.

"Oh, silly me," Rachel laughs, "I mean, Brittany Pierce."

"There's no one dining here this evening by that name either," the hostess informs her politely. "Perhaps you got the evenings confused, Ma'am."

"I," Rachel breathes, her anxiety rising, "…I don't think so," she concludes, thinking perhaps that Brittany may have used an assumed alias – hoping, really.

"Have you been here all evening?" she asks the woman and the hostess nods kindly as Sam finally turns up.

"Well, did you happen to see and tall blonde girl come in here with another girl. The blonde was wearing a white sports coat and the other girl was wearing a lovely, navy blue number."

"I…don't recall seeing anyone like that, Ma'am," the hostess says, her patience wearing just a bit. "Now if you'll excuse me."

"We'll get out of your hair right away, Miss," Sam smiles, literally having to shove Rachel back out of the building.

"Oh, Sam," she cries, falling into his chest and he wraps his arms around her. "Something horrible has happened. I know it."

"Just 'cause they didn't eat here doesn't mean they didn't come by, or that something's bad happening," he tries to reassure her.

"But the hostess specifically said not recalling seeing them."

Sam shrugs, "Maybe she's got a fuzzy memory."

"How many women do you see wearing men's sports coats, Samuel?" Rachel asks him, deadpan.

"I saw one," a slurred voice interrupts, the last word dragging out into a hiccough.

Rachel peers over Sam's shoulder, her eyes locating the old, haggard looking man, his body seemingly only propped up by the building he's leaning against.

"Jus' tonight," the man continues, his bottle clinking heavily against the brick wall. "She dangled outta here pretty fast though. With some skinny lookin' kid. And then her broad took off with that Fabray girl…what sometimes sings at the _Shack_? What I wouldn't give to be a drop of _her _bathwater…"

***o*O*o***

Ivan jumps, his hand flying instantly to the handle to his gun, when their small half-built room is intruded upon by one of his men – a man that appears to be struggling with another person, shoving him unwillingly further into the room.

"Found this Chinaman stalking around the site, sir," the man gruffs, shoving the captive onto the ground so that he lands on his face, his hands tied snugly about the wrist with thick twine. "I think heee's one ov Sylvester's."

The man groans, rolling a little on the dirt floor, his body curling in on itself to guard against further injury or a swift kick.

"Mike," Sugar squeaks, eyes wide when she sees him, bloodies and bruised and Kurt lets out a little hiss through his nose before glaring at the intruder.

"What did you do to him?" he yells, puling against his restraints harder than ever.

"That's heem alright," Ivan says, peering closer at Mike's defeated form with a sneer. "I'll bet hee's vorth a lot to her as vell. Good job, my friend," he continues with a smile, eyes focused on his fellow mob member. "Vee'll have to take care of you when all of this is over."

"Yes," Alexei nods, scrutinizing eyes on the man as well, "Vee must. What did you say your name was again?"

***o*O*o***

_Don't say Brittany , _Mike thinks.

***o*O*o***

_Don't say Brittany,_ Puckerman thinks.

***o*O*o***

"Don't say Brittany," Kurt mouths inconspicuously.

***o*O*o***

Brittany shrugs.

"Brittany."

***o*O*o***

Quinn gets Blaine to answer the door, worried about what could be awaiting them on the other side, but the moment he does a flash of brown hair streaks past him so quickly he doesn't have enough time to react.

"Excuse me," he starts to say, his pace quick as he tries to keep up with her butt eh girl seems determined, and knowledgeable of where she's going because she moves through the apartment with ease until she's barging into Quinn's bedroom.

"Rachel," Santana says, startled when her cousin hurries over to her, wrapping her up in a hard embrace that nearly forces them both back onto Quinn's bed.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Rachel whispers, her voice breaking ever so slightly. "Come on," she says, pulling back and tugging on Santana's hands to get her to her feet, "Let's get you out of here. Samuel has the car waiting."

But instead of following her, Santana shakes her head, pulling her hands out of Rachel's grasp, gently.

"I can't," she says quietly, absorbing Rachel's incredulous look in stride. "I have to wait here. For Brittany."

"Have you gone mad?" Rachel asks her, a little humorless laugh the punctuation. "Are you not aware of what is happening right now? People have been kidnapped, properties damaged, and your _friend _is caught in the middle of it all. You can't honestly tell me that you're not afraid right now."

"I am afraid, Rachel," Santana agrees. "I'm afraid for her," she admits, trying to get Rachel to understand. Her eyes find Quinn and the blonde nods, silently understanding the request for privacy.

The door slips closed behind Quinn, and Santana pats the down mattress, tacitly requesting that Rachel join her.

As soon as a hesitant Rachel is seated, Santana starts speaking. "Rachel, you care for Samuel very much don't you?"

Rachel nods without hesitation, "But-"

"Shhh," Santana hushes her, "Just let me speak for a moment. If it were you in my situation, if it were Sam instead of Brittany out there, would you leave?"

"Of course not," Rachel answers, "But that would be different. Samuel and I are in love. You've only just met Brittany."

"And I love her more than you'll ever imagine," Santana says fiercely, huffing an airy laugh when Rachel stares at her, gob-smacked. "I do, Rachel. I love her so much. And yes it's happened so quickly. And no, I've never been in love before but the way Brittany makes me feel? Nothing in this world matches it and I fear nothing else ever will. So I can't leave here. I can't abandon her."

Santana's never seen Rachel remain silent for so many consecutive seconds before.

It worries her.

"Do you understand?" she asks her, voice hesitant. She can't quite bring herself to look Rachel in the face, afraid of the disappointment she's sure to see there.

Rachel swallows, clearing her throat before facing straight ahead, staring at the closed door before her. "Well, Quinn must have some spare bedding," she says dismissively and Santana feels a smile creep along her lips, her head snapping up to look at Rachel's profile.

"You're my favorite cousin, Rachel Berry," she murmurs, taking hold of Rachel's hand and squeezing gently.

"I'm your only cousin," Rachel murmurs, but her thumb brushes comfortingly along the back of Santana's wrist anyway. "But, seriously, she has to have a spare blanket at least because there is no way I'm to sleep in the back of that beat up old bucket that Samuel calls a car."

***o*O*o***

The space erupts with Brittany's announcement and when everything settles, Brittany's got her gun drawn on Ivan while his is aimed at a hobbled Mike who's aiming his Tommy at Alexei whose aim is set on Brittany – an old-fashioned standoff.

"Put the chopper down," Mike spits out, his attention split between watching Brittany's trigger finger and Alexei's. "Put it down or I swear on Christ almighty I'll shoot."

"Eeef you so much as blink too long, she's dead," Alexei snarls.

The wail of a siren sounds in the distance, adding to the already oppressive air of urgency.

"Look, we all want the same things, alright," Brittany says, trying to appeal to their inner voice of reason. "We all want to go home. So let's all jus tuck our guns back away, you turn our friends loose and we can play cops and robbers another day, okay?"

Ivan spits on the floor at that suggestion.

***o*O*o***

"Cap," Finn says urgently, for once in his life entirely present in the moment, "We gotta do something. He's gonna kill her."

"Not until they implicate Sue," Puckerman says, his chest moving rapidly as his breathing rate increases, "There's not enough evidence to hold any of 'em, yet."

"Who cares? You can bust up this Russian ring. You'll get your commendation on that alone," Finn implores, body vibrating with worry. If anything happens to his Sugar… "I don't want anybody t' die."

"For God's sake, Hudson. They chose this life and if this is how it has to end…" he trails off, eyes hardened but Finn won't settle for that, everything he learned in the academy won't let him.

So when another assailant comes charging into that clearing, lunging at an unsuspecting Brittany he fires…

…and fires true.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's ears ring something horrible when the first shot rings out and, before she can blink, a hail of bullets follow it like someone opened the floodgates and now it's raining lead like they're falling out of the sky.

Acting on instinct, she crouches low, army-crawling out of the space.

She can hear shouting, both near and in the distance, and the constant shuffle of footsteps is almost as deafening as the torrent of bullets.

She glimpses Mike throw his body at Kurt and Sugar, knocking them to the ground and simultaneously loosening their restraints enough that they can wriggle free, crawling on hands and knees to avoid the whizzing gunfire.

She wonders, vaguely, why Alexei and Ivan aren't shooting at them but doesn't give it a second though as they all scramble out of the clearing, stumbling blindly towards safety.

***o*O*o***

"Hudson, you git," Noah barks at him, no longer concerned with Chang, or Pierce or even Sylvester.

He's never seen so much _blood_.

Finn splutters. "…she okay?"

Noah nods quickly, trying in vain to find the source of impact. He's had the training for moments like these, spent endless hours preparing for them, but all of that eludes him now, watching his partner…his pal suffer so.

"She's fine, Hudson. How you feelin'?"

Finn smiles, a few beads of moisture slipping out of the corner of his eyes. "Right as rain," he murmurs, "That's the expression, right?"

"Yep. And damn right you are," Noah says, his voice flooding with conviction. "We gotta get outta here. Round up these here 'scow hats. Get our promotions and go drinkin' and get some girls. So, yeah, you damn well better be right as rain."

Finn's grin fades into something more like a grimace. "I think I'mma hafta take a rain check, Boss," he says quietly, voice growing so faint that Noah has to read his lips to get the whole statement.

"Hudson, you yellow-belly boy," Noah shouts at him, shaking him head but Finn's mostly unresponsive, "You'll be a coward forever if you leave me right now."

"Turn 'em loose, Boss," Finn says, whispers more like it, "Turn 'em loose. She saved my girl."

***o*O*o***

"I swear we parked right here!" Mike yells in a panicked whisper. He knows that every second that ticks by is a valuable one, "Didn't we Britt?"

"Yeah," Brittany mumbles, biting her thumbnail, "I remember because I said to myself that we were parking by the sad tree."

Kurt eyes the weeping willow and chuckles to himself, surprised that he can even find levity in all of this.

"Where's Rory?" Sugar asks, and it's only then that Brittany and Mike even remember the kid and Brittany's eyes cloud over with dread when a pair of car lights illuminate them where they stand – apparently not as hidden by the shadows as she'd thought.

The car crawls to a stop and Rory jumps out, leaving the engine running…and narrowly avoiding Mike's right cross.

"Why'd you move the car?" Mike yells, forgetting himself and Rory leaps back, afraid for a moment until he realizes Mike's merely staggering to the vehicle.

"I had to," he stammers in his defense and Brittany brushes past him, climbing into the driver seat. "I did what you guys told me to do and I didn't get caught but then I thought to me self, I says, 'Rory, wouldn't it be awful smart to have the getaway car manned and ready to go?' so that's what I done. Then when I figured the coppers had caught on to this place, I peeled off. After pickin' up a few things of course," he adds with a sly, proud little smile, gesturing to the backseat where there are large sacks of potatoes dirtying up the interior.

Sugar raises an eyebrow, "I get that you're Irish and everything but did you really abandon us for a sack of potatoes."

"No. Look," Rory reaches back, ripping open one sack with ease and reaching a hand inside and pulling out a handful of crumpled bills.

It's money.

Gobs of it.

"I did good, yeah?" he asks, looking to Brittany for confirmation.

Brittany nods as she pulls off, feeling one knot in her stomach untangle. "You did good, Flannigan."

***o*O*o***

Captain Puckerman straightens out his uniform, the jacket still clinging to him where it's still soaked through with blood.

The sun's on the horizon, its fiery glow just starting to streak across the night sky.

He saw them pull in, the scraggly bunch dragging two heavy sacks on their shoulders as they clamored into the complex.

They're headed to the penthouse floor.

He's always known where she was, it was just a matter of catching her.

It's his call he knows, whether to end it all in one fell swoop, take down Sylvester and all of her men or whether to do what it is her fears he's about to do.

The moment the doors open again, his mind is made up.

Noah makes the call.

***o*O*o***

She didn't think she could ever stay up all night.

Even when her parents' eventually permitted her allowance to welcome in the New Year, she'd always fall asleep just after midnight.

Her father used to say because she's a sun girl.

She rises with it, and she sets when it does as well.

But last night, her troubled mind kept the sleepiness at bay, her nerves wrought with worry over what was happening, could be happening, or would be happening to Brittany.

She spent the entire night worrying, getting reassurances from Quinn, commiserating with Blaine, and (nearly) fighting with Rachel until she was so emotionally exhausted that she'd finally just tucked herself away in the corner of Quinn's balcony, quilt wrapped around her shoulders as she wondered – in spite of her best efforts not to – whether or not Brittany would come home.

Her entire body feels strung as tight as a drum and she feels _everything_ so much more than she normally does.

The coolness of the wind as it rolls along her body, the bit of moisture in the air that lingers curling the tips of her hair where she's let it down, the itchiness of the quilt as it rubs against her bare arms…all of her senses heightened and leaving her buzzing with this unshakable, anxious energy.

She wishes more than _anything_ she'd told Brittany how she felt.

How she feels.

She wishes more than _anything_ that she'll get another chance.

Ultimately though, her body gives in to its own exhaustion and her seemingly eternal battle with her own eyelids, and they flutter shut against her will as she falls into a light slumber.

Or so she thinks, because she surely has to be dreaming when she feels the softest of butterfly kisses press against the corner of her eyebrow.

And she has to be dreaming when fingers – whisper soft and reverent in their journey – trail, gently, along her arm where the quilt has fallen away.

And she has to be dreaming when her heavy eyelids force themselves and she finds the clearest and more beautiful blue eyes staring at her intently.

She _has_ to be dreaming.

But…

She's not.

"Brittany?" she questions, her voice small and disbelieving, even when Brittany's glowing bright smile makes an appearance.

"Took me longer 'n I expected, but, I'm back," Brittany says quietly, her hand finding Santana's and weaving their fingers together – the most precious of tapestry, "Just like I promised."

"Are you okay?" Santana asks, finally fully awake, the night's previous situation coming back to her mind with ferocity, "Are you hurt anywhere? Is Michael okay? Did you find Sugar and Kurt? Brittany, you _must_ tell me something."

Brittany shrugs, a tiny smile painted on her face, "Yes. Possibly. Yes and yes."

Brittany looks on, watching as Santana recount her questions in her mind, attaching Brittany's answers to them for any possible areas of concern.

"Possibly?" Santana frowns, her gaze shifting back to Brittany's as her free hand traverses the landscape of the other girl's face, seeking out tender skin or any swelling that might not be visible to the naked eye. "What does that mean, 'possibly'? Are you hurt or not? Don't worry me any longer, Brittany."

"Hey," Brittany murmurs softly, taking their intertwined hands and kissing the back of Santana's, "No more worries, okay? I'm one-hundred percent now that I'm back with you. And I'm never gonna leave you behind again." Brittany inhales deeply again, feeling her lungs with confidence and bravery, and her voice never wavers as she admits it again. "I love you, Santana Lopez."

Santana sighs, her smile finally making an appearance, her eyes glowing in the early morning amber, "I love you, too."

***o*O*o***

_December 10, 1942_

_Dearest Rachel,_

_Hi. I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I can't believe it's been nearly two years since I've last seen you. I've heard that you and Samuel have married and are expecting a child any day now. If this is correct, that is fantastic news. I have no doubt that the both of you will make excellent parents, after all, you'd taken such good care of me. And tell Samuel – and please forgive me Rachel, Brittany is hovering over me as I write this – that Brittany ill personally travel back to Chicago and see to serving him a knuckle sandwich should he ever harm you in any way. _

_As for Brittany and I, we're fine. We're better than fine actually and cousin, I still get overwhelmed even writing it, but I am so in love. Brittany's secured a steady job tending bar at a nice night club and I occasionally – and you'll never believe this! – sing for a little extra money. You'd love it, Rachel. It's mostly all the old standbys that we'd swayed to in your bedroom but it's so exhilarating being up in front of the crowd and feeling the crowd's energy. I think it's something you'd enjoy as well._

_I'm also attending college. I'm to be a nurse. One of our nation's finest Brittany says (and I'm inclined to believe her). I must say that I miss you terribly, though and my deepest regret is that things could have gone differently but life doesn't exactly work that way. Hopefully, things will settle down entirely soon and I'll see you again. Until then, give my love to Uncle Leroy and Uncle Hiram, and to Samuel. Enclosed is an early (or late) Christmas present if you will. Brittany says now that Sue has been indicted that it's okay to give it to you know. Fair warning cousin, please sit down before you open it._

_Love, forever and always,_

_Santana and Brittany_

Rachel smiles, tucking the letter way carefully before retrieving the folded scrap of paper that had fallen out when she'd first opened it and the moment the wording on it becomes legible, she feels her heart and stomach jump.

"Sam," she gasps, body falling back against their sofa chair as her hand comes up to her chest, feeling her heart beat so that she knows this is real. "Sam!" she calls, voice rising.

"What?" Sam asks, breathlessly making his way in from the garage. "What is it? Is it the baby?"

Rachel shakes her head, emotions suddenly overwhelming and hindering her speech, so instead she holds the slip out to Sam, letting him have a gander and Sam nearly faints, plopping down onto the coffee table that strains to maintain his weight.

The check for $2,500 fluttering quietly to the floor.

***o*O*o***

"Hey Quinnie the Pooh, come quick," Mike says, kicking the door to their apartment closed behind him absently as he rips open the envelope. "We gotta letter from Britt and Santana."

Quinn wipes her hands off on her apron, taking care to set the iron upright on the ironing board – people don't pay you for burning their good clothe – before finding Mike already propped up on the couch, his work jumpsuit soiled from a long day of honest work.

He unfolds the letter, smiling when he sees Brittany's carefully drafted, loopy handwriting and ignoring the thin scrap that falls onto his lap.

He reads the words, eyes bright but then he frowns, turning the letter over in confusion and finding nothing more.

"What do they say?" Quinn asks, idly grabbing the slip of paper.

"It just says '_I told you I'd take care of it_,'" he tells Quinn, making sure to read it verbatim just like it is on the page. "What do you s'pose that means?" he asks, thoroughly perplexed and Quinn shrugs, never one to quite understand the Brittany and Michael dynamic – they'd exchanged many a strange word over the years – and she's aloof when she unfolds the paper Mike had disregarded, her eyes widening when she does so.

"Mike," she says, reaching a hand to grab him but Mike's still fretting over the letter.

"Maybe she's talking about that one time she was meant to pick up my good suit and didn't-""

"Mike," Quinn interrupts, thrusting the paper in front of his face, "Look."

Mike leaps from the sofa, standing on it in muddy boots and all. "Golly me, is that real?"

Quinn nods, laughing at his exuberance. "It looks like it."

"We're rich, Quinnie!" Mike yelps, jumping down and pulling her to her feet, twirling her in a quick dance move. "C'mon, babe. Gimme a honey cooler."

Quinn pecks him, still laughing grandly and suddenly, they don't seem to have a worry in the world.

***o*O*o***

Three more letters go out:

_To Sugar and Rory_

_To Blaine and Kurt_

_To Captain Noah Puckerman_ – though he donates his to The Bomber.

They're probably wondering how she managed to get the money and it's simple really: Brittany's really good at her job – moving things that is.

_Sue watches closely as Brittany hands the bags over to Will, breathing a sigh of relief when the transaction is finished._

"_Is this all of it?"_

_Brittany grins, nodding. "It's everything they took from you."_

_Sue stares at her for a moment longer before dismissing them._

"_Hold on a sec," Brittany asks, needing to hear it from her lips. "Am I out?"_

_Sue rolls her eyes, annoyed. "To the world and of this family, yes. You and your Asian."_

_They file out of Sue's office, no one ever the wiser of Brittany's slightly gimpy gait._

She managed to get away with almost seventeen thousand dollars of the Russians' money, stashing it on her person without anyone ever being none the wiser and when Sue's indictment came across the wire and the Russians' had been prosecuted, she knew she'd finally be able to move it around…freely.

And when Christmas Eve rolls around, Brittany's sure all of her friends are enjoying the best Christmas ever just like she will in about thirty seconds or less.

There's a steady fire crackling in the fireplace, filling their living room with the scent of roasting chestnuts and mixing with the scent of fresh pine from their heavily decorated tree. There's snow falling progressively outside, gathering at the crevices of their living room window and making a perfect backdrop for them.

She snags Santana about the waist as the girl – well, woman now – is about to head off the kitchen, no doubt worried about the Christmas goose that's toasting in the oven or whatever else she's concocted in there that Brittany's sure she'll love – even if it tastes like rotten eggs and beets.

"Brittany," Santana almost whines, even as she allows Brittany to settle her against her lap, the frown on her face slipping away the minute Brittany presses a kiss to those pouty lips.

"Hush now," Brittany says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've got something I wanna ask ya."

Santana settles, her delicate fingers pressing against Brittany's jaw and then threading them into long, flaxen locks, combing tenderly. "I'm all ears, Britt-Britt. Ask away."

Brittany feels the tingle of nerves and her eyes dart away from Santana's momentarily as she tries to chase them away. She swallows. "You love me, right?"

Santana – ever perceptive of Brittany's moods, senses something is afoot but she plays along – especially since this first question is anything but playful.

"With all my heart," she answers with conviction.

"And," Brittany drawls, walking the fingers of her left hand across Santana's back until they settle against her left hip, pulling her in just that little bit closer, "…you know I love you, right?"

Santana's eyes narrow, a cross between a grin and a smirk taking residence on her face. "Where are you driving me, Brittany?"

Brittany's eyes soften and Santana feels her fingers moving along her lip, across her back, fiddling with something.

Brittany smiles, her serious eyes seemingly keeping Santana frozen in place and she thinks she can sense what's coming.

"You know I'd be happy forever if you'd be my wife, right?"

Santana's eyes get really wide and Brittany's surprised she doesn't laugh at it, but she figures that's because it'd be really hard to with her heart beating in her throat and everything.

"Britt…" Santana whispers, breathless and breathless still when Brittany finally brings round that thing she's been toying with – a thing that turns out to be a rather expensive looking engagement ring.

"Will you…" Brittany's voice breaks at the happy tears she sees forming in Santana's eyes and she knows her eyes are doing the same and she clears her throat before continuing, "Will you marry me, Santana?"

And finally…_finally_, Santana can truly love…

…and be loved back.

And Brittany can finally have her _something better_.

She nods, tears spilling over when Brittany shakily slides the ring onto her left ring finger. "I will, Brittany," she says, breath hitching as they kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. "I will."

The Christmas goose burns.


	35. When Brittany Met Santana

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Hey all. We're rapidly approaching the end of these. Yay! Thanks to my beta for helping me out the mostest (gotta stay on schedule, lol) and thanks to you guys for continuing to read. I think I'll reply to reviews tonight because you guys have been unbelievably sweet lately. Oh and for those of you who don't know, I'm over on Tumblr now. Just look up chicagonightsstay. See you there!

P.S. Creative chapter title is creative.

* * *

><p><em>Phweet!<em>

"Okay, ladies!" Coach Roz yells from the sidelines, waving them in.

Brittany takes a knee, the wet grass on the field tickling against her skin as she pants heavily.

"Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once – like that white boy Eminem if he ever drops the N word. This upcoming home game is very important. This game will determine whether I have succeeded as a coach or if I should pack up my bronze Olympic medal and go back to beautician school – and to think, I was only a rinse away from finishing. But I digress. I know I don't need to worry. Because I got a _feeling_," she pauses holding her hand up and all of the girls mirror her actions, still leaning heavily on their lacrosse sticks, "we're gonna be alright. Isn't that right, Miss Brittany?"

Brittany nods, grinning. "You got it, coach."

"Alright, alright," Coach Roz yells, clapping her hands together excitedly. "Now ya'll go on and clean up or something. Ya'll smell like some day-old greens. Damn, now I'm hungry."

"I still don't know," Mercedes breathes out, still doubled over, "How the hell…you two convinced me…to join this damn team. This _ain't_ my sport."

"Mercedes," Tina laughs, zipping up her equipment bag, "_No_ sport is your sport."

"That's true," the other girl agrees, righting herself. "But, even if I had a sport I can assure you lacrosse would not be it. This is right up there next to curling on the list of sports black people would not be caught dead playing."

"Coach Roz plays," Brittany shrugs, pulling up one of her socks, "and she's black."

"Yeah. Explain that to me again? I thought she was an Olympic swimmer or something."

"Water polo," Tina explains, leading the way to the showers. "It's…practically the same thing."

"Yeah, no," Mercedes says, shaking her head. "They're definitely not."

"C'mon." Brittany laughs, draping an arm around Mercedes' shoulders. "I gotta get home early tonight or Lord Tubbington's going to eat all the pizza."

***o*O*o***

"Q?"

"Yes, Coach Sylvester," Quinn answers, sitting primly next to the older woman as they assess the progress of the junior varsity squad.

"Who's that?"

Quinn looks to where Coach Sylvester is sneering and finds the object of her apparent disdain. "That's Santana Lopez, Coach. She's a transfer student and I invited her to try out for the squad-"

"Unacceptable," Sue snaps, reaching for her megaphone.

"But Coach," Quinn says, trying to stop the wrath in vain, "she landed a standing back handspring in gym class. And we weren't even doing gymnastics; we were playing dodge ball."

"Hmm," Sue murmurs, stroking her chin idly, "I'm gestating with intrigue." She brings the megaphone to her mouth, "SANTANA LOPEZ!"

The girl in question looks up, hurriedly jogging over with a wide smile on her face. "Nice to meet you, Coach," she says, holding out her hand but the smile quickly falls when Sue just stares at it.

"Why is she trying to touch me?"

Quinn speaks up. "Coach Sylvester doesn't like to be touched."

"Oh," Santana says, awkwardly taking her hand back.

"Is it true? What Q here tells me? Are you some kind of back-flipping wonder kid?"

"I don't know about_ that_, but I've been taking gymnastics since I was three so…"

"Fabray."

"Yes, Coach?"

"Find a uniform for Sandbags here."

***o*O*o***

"I can't believe I'm actually on the squad," Santana squeals, twirling around again in her Cheerios skirt.

"Well, believe it. Also, forget about the rest of your wardrobe. You wear this uniform everywhere, okay?"

"Okay," Santana nods, following Quinn outside to the parking lot. "Thanks for helping me out, Quinn. It really is nice of you."

"I know," Quinn grins, laughing when Santana playfully slaps her arm. "What was I gonna do? Tell my Godmother that I _couldn't_ look out for you? She'd kill me. And then my mom would resurrect me and kill me again."

"That's because they like me more," Santana quips, leaning against Quinn's car and watching all the students ambling around the parking lot.

"Sit tight. There's some people I want you to meet," Quinn says quickly, reapplying some lip gloss and dragging her fingers through her hair.

On cue, some guys in letterman jackets strut over; some with cheerleaders on their arms, some without.

Quinn grins. "Hey guys. This is my Godsister, Santana. Santana, these are my friends – well, everyone except Puck is my friend," she amends, rolling her eyes in the guy with the mohawk's direction.

"Hey Q. Found a stick. Is it the one that belongs up your ass?"

"Guys," a lanky Asian boy laughs, moving to wrap his arms around Quinn's waist. "Can you two at least try to be civil? We don't want to scare the poor girl," he adds, smiling at her. "I'm Mike."

"_The_ Mike?" Santana asks playfully. "I've heard a _lot_ of things about you."

"Shut up," Quinn gasps, cheeks reddening.

"Well, hello, Santana," a small brunette says, toying with the pleats of her uniform skirt. "I'm Rachel Berry. I'm sure you've heard about me as well."

Santana blinks, "No."

"Oh," Rachel says, smile dimming and Quinn laughs.

"She's kidding, Rachel. I've told her about all of you. Except Sugar because, you know, she's new."

"I'm Sugar," a perky, petite girl informs Santana, performing a tiny pirouette, "Or Azucar if you'd like," she shrugs. "Whatever."

"We were going to go to Breadstix tonight," Rachel says, handing her backpack off to Sam, who is _staring _at Santana like she's the last light saber at a _Star Wars_ convention. "Did you maybe want to join us?"

"Yeah, tag along," Puck adds, draping an arm around Santana's shoulders and smirking, "What have you got to lose?"

"Well," Santana smiles wryly, "_I _don't have anything to lose but you might be short an arm if you don't get it off of me."

She shrugs out of his embrace as the rest of the group laughs at Puck striking out.

"I like her," Sugar nods succinctly and Puck grumbles, eyes darting around the parking lot.

"Whatever," he says, rolling his eyes. "There are plenty of other hot chicks in this school; who knows? Maybe one day Pierce'll come around!" he concludes loudly.

Brittany pauses before putting on her helmet, eyes cutting across the parking lot. "What?" she calls back when she finally spots Puck and company.

Puck smirks, flexing dramatically. "When are you gonna get down with the Jewtown?"

"In your dreams, Puckerman!" Brittany yells, laughing as she straps on her helmet. She shakes her head to herself, still chuckling.

The boy will _never_ stop.

Santana watches the girl start up her motorbike, revving twice before tearing off, making sure to ride right by Puck.

"Come to the 'Stix tonight!" he calls to her quickly retreating form, laughing when she flips him off.

"When are you going to leave that girl alone?" Mike asks him. "She doesn't like you dude."

"She does. She's just having a hard time accepting that about herself," Puck shrugs, heading for his car. "I'll see you losers tonight. Last one to the booth buys refills."

***o*O*o***

"So, are you actually dating that Mike guy or what?" Santana asks, sitting cross-legged on Quinn's bed, clutching onto one of her many pillows.

Quinn blushes, staring at her refection in the mirror as she freshens up her make-up. "We're…something," she offers, shrugging lightly. "We like each other but, I mean, he hasn't kissed me yet."

"But he wants to," Santana supplies, smiling in a teasing way. "And you want him to."

"You may or may not be right about that," Quinn returns, spinning suddenly and diving onto her bed, making both of their bodies jump. "What about you? Any of the guys catch your eye?" Quinn asks, her eyes twinkling just slightly.

Santana averts hers, suddenly extremely interested in the little flower pattern on Quinn's bed sheets. "They were okay," she offers.

"Well, Sam couldn't quit staring at you," the blonde girl says, turning her body to lie on her side. "I think he's going to try to ask you out tonight. Puck too, probably, but you can just knee him in the groin and move on."

Santana laughs nervously, feeling her throat tighten. She didn't think they'd reach this impasse quite so soon.

Luckily for her, Quinn is not entirely observant of her friend's change in behavior, and she's relieved when the other girl takes out her cell phone, rapidly composing a text.

Santana clears her throat. "Hey, Q?"

"Yeah?"

"Who was that girl?" she asks, trying her best to sound casual, "The one with the bike?"

"Who? Pierce?" Quinn asks, still more focused on her texting.

"Yeah, I think that's who I'm talking about," Santana says, nodding. "Are you friends with her?"

"I wouldn't call her my _friend_ per se, but, like, I don't hate her. We kind of run in the same circles since technically she's a jock too," Quinn answers absently yet honestly. "She's on the lacrosse team. She's actually, kind of, good."

Santana's smile is small as she watches her own fingers twist nervously against the bed spread. "Do we, um, do we cheer at lacrosse games?" she probes.

"The Cheerios cheer at all McKinley High sporting events," Quinn answers automatically, almost by rote.

"That's…cool," she says, feeling her grin widen.

***o*O*o***

"I still don't get why _I _have to be here," Brittany says to Tina, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her letterman jacket. "_You_ like Puck, not me."

"You're my wing-woman, Britt," Tina says, primping her hair in the Breadstix window. "Plus, at least he actually pays attention to you. He won't even look at me," she adds dejectedly.

"T," Brittany says softly, taking note of the forlorn look on her friend's face, "You're awesome, okay? And if Puck can't see that, then maybe he isn't the guy for you."

Tina smiles, nudging her shoulder against the taller girl. "You're all kinds of smart sometimes, Britt," she says, following her into the restaurant.

"Sure," Brittany mutters, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, "If I'm so good with relationship advice, how come I'm not in one?"

"Easy," Tina giggles, nudging her shoulder, "You're too picky."

"I kind of have to be, T. I don't think too many straight girls would respond well to me randomly hitting on them," Brittany says, sliding into the booth after her friend. "Why am I the only lesbian in this town? I suck at statistics but even I know the one in ten ratio is _way_ off here."

Tina looks on – watching Brittany lower her head so that her chin is resting on her folded hands with a pout – a little at a loss at what to say. I mean, sure she's seen those 'It gets better' campaign commercials but, it kinda sucks that one of her best friends is gonna miss out on a lot of what adolescence has to offer simply because she can't help who she likes.

Brittany should get to go on dates and have crushes and share kisses with the person she likes just like Tina'll be able to…as soon as Puck gets his head out of his ass.

"Britt," she says gently, touching the girl on the arm but Brittany shakes her head, plastering on a smile.

"I'm good, T," she says brightly, pushing herself upright again. "I'll just get me something to drink."

***o*O*o***

"Best thing about those Cheerios skirts," Puck starts to say, sidling in a little too close to Santana, "the view is crunchy toast."

They're standing near the bar; Santana nursing a coke, Puck just…there.

"Has anyone ever told you that you try too hard?" Santana smiles slyly.

Puck smirks, "Only in bed."

"God," Santana says, rolling her eyes.

"In some circles, yes," Puck says smoothly, wrapping his knuckles against the counter.

"Hey," someone says to the bartender, lithe body crashing into the smooth surface just next to Puck, "Can I get a Nestle Pink?"

"Sure thing," the tender mutters back, quickly moving to retrieve a glass.

"Well, well, well," Puck mumbles, turning a little to his left now, "I knew you'd see the light."

Brittany rolls her eyes, flipping her hair back with full intention of telling Puck off – probably something along the lines of _not_ having an attraction for guys named after Biblical characters or sporting objects, or, you know, guys in general – but that plan falls by the wayside when she glimpses Puck's companion.

Santana gasps slightly, trying to play it cool when the girl she'd seen earlier is suddenly and inexplicably _right there_.

Right there and staring at her.

She offers up a small smile, "Hi."

Brittany continues staring.

"Um, hello," Puck says, grinning wryly, "This is the part where you tell me to fuck off and inflict some kind of pain on my body and I make a quip about how much I like it."

But Brittany just keeps on staring, her face flushing when she feels the other girl's eyes on her and Puck is starting to get bored.

"Britt?" he questions just as her drink arrives, breaking the trance-like state she's in.

"Um…yeah, bye," she stutters out quickly, taking off so fast that she almost flattens Rachel where she stands.

"What's wrong with her?" the smaller girl asks, looking back and forth between Puck and Santana for information.

"I don't know," Puck shrugs, turning around and ordering two more diet cokes. "Bitches be cray, yo."

***o*O*o***

Brittany ignored the confused look Tina gave her when she dropped her glass of strawberry milk off at the table without a word.

And she ignored the angry glare the elderly couple gave her as she cut past them before they could make it to the salad bar.

She ignored everything and everyone in favor of getting to the bathroom as soon as humanly possible because _oh my God_ she thinks. _Who the hell was that?_

It's not abnormal for her to see pretty girls.

For example, Quinn Fabray is abnormally pretty and she's only a little bit aware of it which makes it even better.

And, Tina – her BFF – is pretty, though she's learned a long time ago not to let Tina's looks affect her or that'd make for a fairly _awkward_friendship.

Even Rachel Berry with her coffee grinder personality – because Brittany hates the sound of those – is pretty in a way (or possibly only when she's wearing her Cheerios uniform).

But _this_ girl – the one Brittany'd just seen - is _so_, so, so, so pretty.

It's like the pretty girl was climbing up a pretty ladder and got all the way to the top and her pretty foot slipped on one of the pretty rungs and she fell, hitting each and every rung on the way down and every blow only made her more pretty.

So, in short, pretty girl is _pretty._

So pretty that instead of staying there and saying something clever in response to the simple 'hi' she turned on her heel and took off toward the restroom so fast she probably looks like she was having a case of the trots.

Brittany's eyes widen, her reflected self mirroring her actions (obviously).

_She probably thinks I've got the trots._

She closes her eyes, slowly letting her head drop forward until her forehead is pressed against the glass.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she murmurs, barely taking the time to acknowledge someone else shuffling into the bathroom.

"Hey," Tina says and Brittany should've expected as much, "What's wrong? Your milk's getting warm."

Brittany pokes out her lower lip, turning around and leaning against the sink, the hard porcelain surface pressing uncomfortably against the small of her back. "I just made a complete fool out of myself."

"With Puck?" Tina asks, eyebrows furrowed. "I know he's my crush and all but even I can admit that he's a little high up on the idiot scale. No one can out-_fool_ him. It's impossible."

"Not with _Puck_," Brittany says, biting her lip as she feels her face warming up. It shouldn't be a big deal because Tina _knows_ that she likes girls, but, Tina's never known her to actually _like _one, and okay, so that made a lot more sense in her head but she gets what she means so it's fine.

"I'm talking about the girl he was with."

Tina's hand goes to her chest, "_With _with?"

"No," Brittany sucks her teeth, "Tina, please, can we talk about me for a second and not your massive girl-boner for Puck?"

"Okay, I'm sorry. Tell me about this girl."

***o*O*o***

Quinn and Santana walk into McKinley High arm in arm, the blonde smiling and waving at everyone and Santana not so overtly scanning the crowds for one Miss Brittany Pierce.

It's on or about the third or so hallway sweep that Quinn finally takes notice. "Who are you looking for?"

Santana's head whips around so fast that she catches a mouthful of her own ponytail. "No one."

Quinn grins slyly. "Now that doesn't sound too convincing."

She can feel that familiar burn spreading in her chest, the same one she gets whenever she thinks someone can see the real her, how she really feels. And the way Quinn's looking at her right now is doing nothing to help it.

She can't breathe.

"Santana?" Quinn questions, the smile on her face fading into a confused frown. "Are you okay?"

Santana gasps for breath and Quinn hurries her into a bathroom, yelling at the various other girls inside to get out and they do, promptly.

"Hey," Quinn whispers, rubbing Santana between the shoulder blades with the flat of her hand, "Tell me what's going on. Do you need the nurse?"

Santana shakes her head, still trying to get her lungs to work properly. It takes a minute or two but she finally calms herself down and when she does her eyes start to fill up.

Quinn leaves her propped against a wall, moving quickly to an empty stall to retrieve some tissues. "Here," she says, motioning for Santana to hold her head up and she dries the tears from her cheeks, pressing the paper gently to her skin. "How long have you been having those for?" Quinn asks quietly.

Santana's breath hitches as she works at steadying her breathing. "Ever since I…I figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"…that I like girls," Santana says, looking at the tiled floor, and it comes out so much easier than she'd ever expected it to. "I like girls and I'm so worried about what my parents will think. If everyone who loves me will suddenly stop. I just…I think about the day I'll finally tell them and my chest feels so tight and I _can't _Quinn. I can't have everybody hate me," she adds brokenly, her voice cracking as she continues to ramble. At long last she lifts her head, seeking out the eyes of her friend, hoping to find comfort there but she looks away again as Quinn's gaze is unreadable.

"Oh, Santana," Quinn sighs, speaking quietly, "I don't care."

Santana's head darts back up. "You…you don't care?"

"I mean, of course I _care_. Forget the god part, okay? You _are_ my sister. So I care. I just don't care, you know? You liking girls doesn't change anything, alright?"

"Well, of course it does," Santana says, wiping the last rogue tear away from her eyes with a choked laugh. "You're gonna have to stop trying to fix me up with your friends."

"Only the guy ones," Quinn says slyly, brightening when a light bulb in her head suddenly goes off. "So, remember Brittany…"

***o*O*o***

Brittany keeps her eyes peeled all morning for the pretty girl to no avail.

She hasn't seen her in the hallways or in any of her classes so when lunch period rolls around, she's not expecting to see her there either.

Maybe she was a figment of Brittany's imagination.

But then, just as she's accepting a scoop of mashed potatoes from the lunch lady, it happens.

Brittany doesn't jump like a normal person when petite fingers tap against her shoulder but whips around with the grace of a rhinoceros, startling the girl now standing before her with the action.

"Hi," pretty girl says, a light laugh the punctuation.

Brittany coughs, turning back around and sliding her tray down. "Hey," she somehow manages to mumble, loading her tray up with more peas than one person can stomach.

"You, um, must really like peas," the girl says and Brittany's face flushes in embarrassment as she finally stops scooping them up, laughing at herself.

She hates peas actually.

"No," she says after a moment, finding the courage to look the other girl in the eye, "No, I really don't."

The girl laughs, airy and light. "Then why are you getting so much?" she asks, her nose crinkling adorably and Brittany decides to be honest.

"We're at the end of the line," she says, a shy smile tugging at her lips, "And I really want to talk to you so…" she trails off into a shrug. "It was either this or knock your tray out of your hands. I don't think you would've liked that too much."

Pretty girl smiles and it lights up her whole face Brittany notes proudly. "Or…we could just have lunch together."

Brittany blinks, surprised, "Or that."

"C'mon," pretty girl says, jerking her head behind her toward the cafeteria tables. She bumps her hip playfully against Brittany as they walk. "My name's Santana, by the way."

Brittany bumps her back. "I'm Brittany."

***o*O*o***

"Stop showing off, Britt," Tina warns as they approach the center X but Brittany shrugs her off, unconcerned.

Brittany approaches midfield, still panting after the goal she'd just scored and even though Coach Roz is adamant about resting her, there's no way she's coming off the field.

After all, Santana's watching.

"Damn it, Pierce," the captain of the opposing team breathes, shifting her shoulders. "Why don't you give us a break and sit the rest of the quarter out?"

"No can do, Dean," Brittany says, her mouth guard clenched between her teeth as she waits for the whistle, body crouched as low to the ground as she can manage, her stick almost parallel to the grass.

She's focused on the white rubber ball like her life depends on it and when the shrill sound of the whistle pierces her ears she pounces on it, scooping it up into the pocket of her stick and sprinting forward as if her feet are on fire.

She sees Tina out of the corner of her eye, filling up the wing as they both approach the goal crease. Tina, if she passes it to her, will definitely have the easier shot, only one defender between her and the goalkeeper.

But Brittany, well, she's never particularly favored easy – especially when it comes to lacrosse.

She spins around the first defender easily enough and when the second one bull rushes her, figuring to throw off her momentum she stutter steps, letting the ball fall out of her stick momentarily as the other girl passes – the tiny ball rolling right between her feet before Brittany's on top of it again, scooping it up with ease.

There's only one defender left to beat now and Brittany chances a glance over at the sidelines, seeking out Santana and smiles to herself when she sees the other girl's eyes on her, absently shaking her pompoms as the rest of the Cheerios carry on with their routine, the play on the field distracting her.

Brittany goes all out now, taking a quick angled cut so that she's headed Tina's way, her friend calling animatedly for the ball and Brittany passes it to her at last, the last defender flailing at the air as Tina skips a shot toward the net…

…or not, because Brittany still has the ball and she has fight off laughter when the goalie flails at a phantom shot from Tina, leaving Brittany with a wide open, non-contested shot and she rolls the ball in slowly, just under the lunging reach of the goalkeeper's stick.

Brittany raises the visor of her helmet, raising her arms in the air in triumph and turning to the crowd, eyes seeking out Santana's once again.

She laughs when she sees her and Santana waves a pom-pom excitedly, wide grin on her face but it falls a moment before Brittany finds herself on the ground, a sharp pain across her back and the wind knocked out of her.

"Nobody likes a showboat, Pierce," Dean growls when Brittany rolls back over and stands over her for a moment but before Brittany can gather her senses or before the officials can intervene, a small figure wearing a Cheerios skirt, steps over her and throws two fists into the chest of the other team's captain, knocking her back a few steps.

"What the hell is your problem?" Santana yells, eyes full of rage. "I don't really get how this sport works but if you ever knock Britts down like that again I will go _all_ Lima Heights," she threatens and Brittany finds herself chuckling even though her back hurts something awful.

The officials lead captain Dean away, ejected from the game most likely and she can hear Coach Roz giving her an earful but none of that matters more than the way Santana's leaning over her now, knees getting stained by the grass as she looks Brittany over.

"Are you okay?" she asks her, fiddling with the snaps and latches of Brittany's helmet until it wiggles free, revealing Brittany's smiling face.

"I'm excellent," she quips and Santana shakes her head, amused.

"You just got blindsided by a human freight train and you're excellent?"

Brittany nods, grin never faltering. "I got your attention, didn't I?"

***o*O*o***

Santana leans against Quinn's car, her stomach in knots as she watches Brittany celebrate with her teammates across the parking lot.

She wants to go over there but, well, she's never done this girl-girl thing and just because she likes girls and Brittany likes girls doesn't mean that Brittany likes her so there's still a chance that this could go completely wrong and her one-sided crush could be confirmed.

There's also the possibility that Brittany's teasing and conversations _were_actually flirting and Brittany _like_ likes her too.

Brittany's friends gradually dwindle down and the blonde stands there for a moment, watching them go before slipping on her riding helmet.

That's when Santana decides it's now or never.

"Hey," she says, hands slipping into her jacket pockets nervously as she sidles up beside Brittany's bike.

Brittany kicks her feet down off the pegs, straddling her bike and using her legs to keep it upright. "Hey back," she says with a grin.

"Um," Santana swallows, mind suddenly and inexplicably going blank, "is your back okay?"

"It's a little sore," Brittany says, affixing the straps of her helmet. "It'll probably bruise and I am so not looking forward to going home and lying on my bed. But I'm tough. I can take it. Thanks for having my back though."

Santana smiles shyly, laughing ruefully. "Yeah…"

"You're like my own personal bodyguard," Brittany adds, looking much more amused than anything and Santana blushes when the blonde's fingers trail lightly down the sleeve of her jacket.

She looks up into Brittany's eyes and gulps, swallowing down her nerves and building up all of her courage.

Now.

Or.

Never.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks, biting her lower lip anxiously and Brittany nods, leaning over on the bike so that Santana can whisper whatever it is in her ear, only Santana doesn't whisper anything.

Santana presses her lips to Brittany's cheek, right at the corner of her mouth, so swift and so soft that Brittany wouldn't even know it'd happened if it weren't for the warmth she feels heating her face.

She can feel Santana's hand in the pocket of her jacket, tucking something carefully inside before the girl's pulling back, a small smile on her face as she takes in Brittany's dumbfounded look. "I'll see you around, Pierce," she says quietly, leaving Brittany gawking as she hurries back to Quinn's car before she faints from the nerves.

Brittany for her part can't even feel the pain in her back anymore, numb except for where Santana's lips were just recently resting against her skin.

She absently reaches into her pocket, pulling out the small scrap of paper with a scrawled 'call me' and ten digits neatly scribbled across it and the smile on her face nearly splits it in half.

She totally can't wait to get home now.


	36. Girl Band

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Again, I apologize for taking so long. I'm without a beta for a (hopefully) short while and it's making things take a little longer than usual; couple that with real life and literally _nothing_ was getting written, lol. But thanks for sticking it out with me guys. It's greatly appreciated as well as all the feedback. Okay, mistakes in this thing, I claim 'em all. I'll try to get at the reply to reviews today as well. Also, song belongs to Aerosmith.

* * *

><p>Santana, guitar still slung around her shoulders, takes a look around at her band mates and almost bursts out laughing at Mercedes' painful expression.<p>

She sympathizes greatly and nothing pleases her more than when Quinn reaches out her hand to silence a cymbal. "Thank you," she says with gritted teeth, interrupting the young girl before she can proceed any further.

Rachel claps politely, standing up from the lawn chair after sharing a meaningful look with Kurt who's rubbing his temple. "That was…" she starts, at a loss for words for a very brief moment, but she very pointedly strides over to the girl drummer and takes her sticks away. "Well, we'll be in touch," she finally manages.

"No, we won't," Santana says, smirking when the girl on the drums looks over at her. "Seriously, we won't. You suck."

The girl frowns, knocking over the kick drum in her haste to get out of the garage and Santana shrugs when Rachel turns to glare at her. "What?" she asks with a shrug. "It's the truth."

"It's called using a little bit of tact," Rachel says primly, striding back to her seat.

"It's _called_, find another hobby," Santana deadpans.

Rachel rolls her eyes as Quinn, Tina, and Mercedes giggle away. "Laugh it up. But, mind you, we're still without a drummer."

"Well, let's review," Kurt says, skimming over the notes he's scratched out on his clipboard. "There was the first girl who Tina didn't like," he says, eyes scanning the paper, "What was her name?"

"Sunshine," Blaine supplies dutifully from where he's sitting in the boyfriend's corner, engrossed in some handheld video game with Mike and Finn.

"I didn't like the way she was staring at Mike," Tina mumbles.

"Yeah, what's with the Asian on Asian attraction," Mercedes asks, honestly wondering. "Is that like, in the 'rice' code?"

"Personally, I'd be afraid of eventually hooking up with a third cousin or something," Quinn adds, tuning her guitar.

"Then there was _Aphasia_…" Kurt starts with a roll of his eyes, "…or should I say future inmate #406-"

"That's racist," Mercedes interrupts.

"Oh and 'rice' code, isn't?" Tina says with a dry laugh.

"Wait," Santana says, "There's no 'rice' code?"

"Guys," Rachel whines, amidst the chorus of laughter, "Can we please get serious about this?"

"Rachel's right," Kurt allows, even as most of them roll their eyes. "We can't obviously have a _band_ without a drummer."

"Well, Noah offered, as long as he gets free reign with Quinn's naughty bits," Mercedes all but cackles, laughing even harder when Quinn glares at her.

"Look," Santana starts with a coy smile, "I say we use Puckerman, let him have his unholy way with Quinn, call ourselves five chicks with a stick and call it a day. Quinn'll take one for the team, won't you Quinnie?"

Quinn holds up her middle finger, her eyes narrowing as she spots someone lumbering up the driveway.

"Yo," the person says, surveying the layout, "this where the drummer auditions are?"

"Yes, yes," Kurt nods, handing his clipboard to Rachel and rushing over to grab the girl by the arm. "Come right in."

"Welcome to the girl band drummer auditions," Rachel says prestigiously, like it's some great honor, her pen poised for note-taking. "I'm Rachel, lead vocalist. And what's your name?"

The girl shuffles further inside, letting her eyes roam over the unfamiliar faces in the garage. "Lauren," she says slowly. "Lauren Zizes."

"I'm sorry," Rachel says, brow furrowed, "Zi…zes."

"Yeah," Lauren smirks. "Rhymes with 'Bite me'."

"Oh shit," Santana laughs, scuffing the toe of her shoe on the floor, "I like her already."

***o*O*o***-

She likes her even more when she sits at their drum set and delivers a ten minute drum solo that would make Chad Smith cry and when her eyes catch Tina rocking out and Quinn holding up a cigarette lighter, she knows the feeling's shared.

Lauren finishes with a bit of pizzazz, tossing the sticks into the air at the end and everyone's on their feet and clapping when she's done, sweat pouring off her brow.

"That. Was. Awesome," Tina concludes, whooping loudly.

"For real girl," Mercedes agrees with a nod, "You threw down."

Kurt looks at Rachel, who's tearing up as she gives a confirming nod. "Well, Lauren, welcome to the-"

"Am I late?"

They only hear her because of the idiot outside wailing on his car horn, but the noise is enough to stop Kurt mid-sentence and make everyone else turn around.

"The drummer auditions? Am I late?" the person clarifies, looking a little out of sorts.

"Actually," Rachel starts to say, "We were just about to-"

"You're not late," Santana interrupts quickly, stepping forward. "Come," she gestures behind her to the set with her head. "Play."

The girl grins widely, bouncing a little on her heels before jetting past them and Santana can't help checking her out as she does.

"But Santana," Rachel whispers, "We already picked- ow!"

Santana smiles, ignoring the heated glare on Rachel's face as she rubs furiously at the red, freshly pinched skin on her forearm, "Anything in particular you're going to play for us today…"

"Brittany," the girl says, following Santana's unasked prompt, "My name's Brittany. And I thought I'd freestyle it." She offers Santana a wink, pulling a drumstick out of either pocket of the shorts she's wearing.

There's different color tape on each one, carefully laid out in the color of the rainbow and Santana feels infinitely great about this drummer.

"You're thinking with your crotch again, Lopez," Quinn whispers into her left ear, barely hiding a grin.

"I am not," Santana shoots back, keeping her voice quiet as the girl behind the drums counts quietly to herself. "She could be good," she defends, "And not to be a prick or anything but she's a little easier on the eyes than She-Hulk over there."

"_Shut up_," Tina murmurs quietly through clenched teeth, "Pretty sure she can hear you."

"Um," Mercedes asks, cocking one hip, "Is she going to play?" She raises an eyebrow when the girl in question gets eye level with the snare drum, blowing on it gently.

Santana bites her lip, anxious. "She's…preparing."

"Brittany?" Kurt speaks up after another moment. "Whenever you're ready," he coaxes and Brittany nods, smiling widely one more time before instantly and without warning diving into her set, kicking it off with a raucous and badass drum roll that goes on for about two minutes straight and leaves Rachel's jaw on the ground.

"Shit," Quinn curses quietly next to her, a wondrous smile on her face but Santana pays her hardly any mind, more content to keep her eyes glued on the blonde girl getting everything she can out of Puck's pretty impressive twelve-piece drum set.

Her dynamics are insane and everyone just about flips their shit when she spins her sticks around, backsticking like she's on the drum line, hammering out a fierce cadence on the snare drum and then dropping right into an all cymbal combo – heavy on the high-hat, a little less on the splash – seamlessly.

Even the Lauren chick looks impressed, her lip curling up in one corner and Santana just watches in awe, already feeling overwhelmed by this girl's abilities.

And what's more is Brittany looks absolutely radiant playing, her hands flying about with little effort, eyes alit and almost laughing as she goes.

It's…kinda beautiful.

For kicks, or maybe just to show off – Santana'll never know, Brittany closes with a familiar piece, one she's heard Puck try and replicate for ages only Brittany pulls it off with closed eyes and a tongue between her teeth.

John Bonham would be proud.

She finishes with a bowed head, her hair hanging in her face and it's silent in the garage for all of three seconds before the first person yelps and applauds, Blaine slapping his palms together like an overjoyed seal and it doesn't take long for everyone else to join in, Mike and Finn bowing on the floor like idiots.

Brittany flips her hair back, face red from both exertion and the adulation. "I did good?" she asks, needlessly, her eyes settling on Santana's.

"You did awesome," Santana yells over the din.

And she must've because even Rachel gets a little carried away. "Welcome to the fucking band!"

***o*O*o***

"I don't get what the big hold up is," Puck says, shoving a whole handful of curly fries into his mouth and smacking loudly. "She's hot. You're hot. And you're both obviously good with your fingers. What's your deal, Lopez?"

Santana cracks back and lands a punch dead on his bicep for that one, glancing quickly over to where Brittany's getting her keck on and conversing with Quinn, pounding on the wooden lawn table to her heart's content.

"As crude as Noah is being," Rachel assesses, taking a moment away from watching Finn toss a football around with Mike, "he does have a point."

"Yeah, eventually the girl's gonna notice the puddle of drool at your feet," Mercedes deadpans, much to Santana's growing embarrassment with the conversation.

Santana shrugs, staring down at her hands as they nervously drum along her own table. "But I don't even know if she's-"

Santana can't even finish that half-truth due to the chorus of disbelieving objections.

***o*O*o***

Brittany's head snaps up when she hears everyone at the other table groan, barely able to make out more than "_So_ gay" and "She likes you".

She smiles when Santana's eyes meet hers briefly but the other girl just kinds of grimaces before looking away again.

"Quinn?" Brittany asks, slowing her sticks momentarily and interrupting whatever it is the other blonde is rambling about.

Something about boys.

"Hmm?" Quinn asks, mid-sentence. She's sitting on top of the table, sunglasses perched high on her head.

"You're pretty close to Santana, right?"

Quinn smirks. "_Pretty_ close," she nods.

"Um, okay," Brittany says, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "Are you two…" she trails off, making her drumstick heads kiss and Quinn gasps, overwhelmed with the amount of 'hell to the no' she suddenly feels.

"No way," she almost shrieks, making Brittany's eyebrows shoot skyward, "I'm not a muff-diver."

"Okay," Brittany says, slowly. "Sheesh; forget I asked."

"No, I mean…I'm sorry," Quinn starts, feeling the need to explain her overreaction, "It's just…man, people ask me that a lot. About being gay I mean. And, like, it's really starting to weird me out, you know? It's like, if everybody thinks it then maybe there's some truth to it."

Brittany shrugs, twirling her drumstick with her right hand as she thinks it over. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. I mean, people keep telling me I should date my best friend Sam but…I won't."

"Wait, that blonde boy that drops you off all the time isn't your boyfriend?"

Brittany shakes her head, starting her impromptu drumming session again.

"So…you're _not_ dating anybody?"

Brittany grins now, playful. "What? You asking me out Quinn?"

"Very funny," Quinn murmurs, easily tamping down the grin that wants to break out, "And that wasn't an answer."

"I'm not currently dating anyone, no," Brittany says, glancing away quickly but Quinn still notices where or rather to whom her attention was suddenly drawn.

"But you wanna be," Quinn teases pleasantly, laughing when Brittany turns red.

"So, um," Brittany tries again, focusing her attention on her rapidly moving wrists instead, "…can you tell me something about Santana?"

"Sure," Quinn shrugs. "Well…she's sleeping with Rachel."

It takes everything in Quinn not to laugh as the pure unadulterated shock that paints itself across Brittany's face. Her jaw falls to the table and her eyes bug out so far, Quinn worries she might have to put one back in. "What? Like, how could she…but Rachel's with…and she's so damn loud and annoying, too."

"Hey now," Quinn interrupts, playfully stern. "Rachel's sort of my friend you know. Besides that, I'm kidding. Santana's single, if that's what you're asking."

"That's…um, good to know," Brittany says quietly but only that and nothing more, starting to rapidly pound on the table again. "Very good to know," she adds absently, risking a glance at Santana again, unable to stop her smile when she sees the other girl laughing loudly with her head tossed back.

***o*O*o***

"One, two, three-"

Santana interrupts, pointing at Rachel. "Whore!"

Brittany almost misses the first downbeat when she snickers, catching Santana's eye and winking, smiling when Santana grins back.

Rachel, true to form, though she sends a deliciously devilish glare Santana's way while belting out the first verse before returning her gaze to her glowing boyfriend, rocking on his heels in the front row.

The gig is relatively small – only about fifty people (and really only thirty strangers if you account for all the friends and family in attendance) – but it's still their first paying one ever, and Santana finds herself getting carried away in the euphoria of it all, her calloused fingers tearing up and down her guitar without nary a second thought.

And the crowds pretty into it too, everyone's head's bobbing and bodies swaying in place – she can even see Sam (Brittany's _not_-boyfriend, thankfully) rocking out on air guitar in a darkened corner, so, over all, life is good.

The fact that Brittany's right behind her, every so often managing to prod her backside gently with a drumstick just makes everything that much better.

***o*O*o***

"Okay, guys. I think I need a breather," Rachel speaks into the mic, her voice just a little scratchy like it gets when she's been belting away too long. "So, let me be the first to introduce to you, Miss SANTANA!"

Santana smiles when the spotlight finds her, and she feels her stomach well up in anticipation as the crowd starts to cheer.

She can sing.

She knows this.

And she's done it live before plenty of times.

This too is something she knows.

But, this is the first time there have been more than a dozen people on the listening end, not to mention, the song's kind of raw for them, having only practiced it a few times.

So, she's kind of a lot nervous.

"Well, being that I am a 90s kid," Santana starts, voice smooth on the microphone even though she feels like she's about to vomit, "If I got up here and told you guys I wanted to sing one of the classics, you'd think I was talking about 'Nsync or Britney Spears or some shit."

"Hey!" Kurt yells from the audience, "Do _not_ insult the Timberlake!"

"Yeah," Brittany pouts from behind her, poking her with the drumstick, "And Spears is fierce, Lopez."

"Fierce as Ms. Spears _is_," Santana says, leaning to her right so she can look back over her shoulder at Brittany who nods in approval, "I was thinking a little more retro. And a whole lot more rock n' roll."

"Well, what're you gonna do, Santana?" Tina asks her, hands on her hips, keeping up with the pre-song interlude.

"I wanted to get my Steven Tyler impression on for a minute, can I do that?" she asks cheekily, listening to the crowd murmur in anticipation. "How about it folks? Who wants to hear a lil' Aerosmith tonight?"

The crowd roars their approval, clapping wildly and Santana feels great about their decision, especially when Quinn plucks off her guitar, pulls out a harmonica, and the screams get louder.

Santana smirks, grabbing the microphone and pulling it off of the stand, guitar pick still nestled between her fingers as she faces Brittany, the blonde twirling her drumsticks idly as she waits for Santana's signal.

Santana lets it simmer for just a little while longer, waiting until Brittany's eyes lock onto hers before starting.

_C'mere baby_

_You know you drive me up a wall _

_The way you make good for all the nasty tricks you pull _

_Seems like we're makin' up more than we're makin' love _

_And it always seems you got somn' on your mind _

_Other than me _

_Girl you got to change your crazy ways... you hear me_

_Say you're leavin' on the seven thirty train _

_And that you're headin' out to Hollywood _

_Girl you've been givin' me that line so many times _

_It kinda gets like feelin' bad looks good... yeah _

_That kinda lovin' turns a man to a slave _

_That kinda lovin' sends a man right to his grave _

_I go crazy crazy baby I go crazy _

_You turn it on then you're gone _

_Yeah you drive me crazy crazy crazy for you baby _

_What can I do... honey _

_I feel like the color blue _

The crowd is swaying together, looking like one mass, slowly moving in harmony, and she can make out a few faces as she goes into the second chorus; Kurt and Blaine in one another's arms and Finn dipping Rachel while she laughs in her maniacal fashion and she feels good – real good.

Brittany's keeping the lifeline of the song going strong and each bang and drag against the skin of the drum sends a vibration through Santana's veins, her mouth spitting out the lyrics as Tina steadily tickles the ivories. Quinn's still wailing on the harmonica and Santana's own fingers are blistering against the strings of her guitar and she knows without a doubt that it'll hurt tonight, but only in the best way.

_Crazy crazy crazy for you baby_

_I'm losin' my mind_

_Girl 'cause I'm goin' crazy_

_Crazy crazy crazy for you baby_

_You turn it on then you're gone_

_Yeah you drive me..._

_Ooohh oohh ..._

_Yeah yeah yeah... baby..._

The thumping of her heart is completely drowned out by the roaring applause – who ever thought less than a hundred people could make so much noise – and she smiles fully now, completely at ease as she takes a quick little bow.

"Woo!" Brittany yells behind her, kicking her bass drum in elation and Santana feels the little hairs at her arm stand on end.

Yeah.

It's a pretty great night.

***o*O*o***

Things taper down rather quickly after that, Rachel rejoining them all on stage to close them out with a piano heavy original song, one that she can stand on the sidelines for, so she does, standing in the shadows as she watches her band mates perform.

Rachel, is definitely in her element, belting out the lyrics to different members of the audience she can make out and Quinn's in her zone, strumming along on the guitar but it's Brittany's who's really – as if it's really a surprise – got her attention.

Brittany, casually drumming.

Brittany, looking mostly bored until she catches Santana staring.

Brittany, hardly paying attention to drumming and instead playfully flirting with her offstage.

"You should pay attention," Santana mouths, trying to maintain her cool even though Brittany just told her she looks cute.

Brittany side-eyes her, showing off now by drumming with one hand and using the other to cover a fake yawn.

"I'm talking about the audience," Santana continues, once she's finished laughing.

Brittany tilts her head cutely, her bluer than blue eyes still on Santana. _But all I can see is you._

Santana didn't think it was possible to actually melt.

She was wrong.

***o*O*o***

They finish loading the last of the equipment into Puck's van, everyone still buzzing off the success of their performance, but when they all clamor into their cars, headed to Santana's for the after party; Santana waves them off, opting to walk home.

"You sure Lopez?" Puck asks her, raising an eyebrow. "There are creepy people around here at night."

"I'll be fine," she tells him, hoping the spark in her eyes tells him all he needs to know.

"I think I'm gonna walk too," Brittany says, hopping back out of Sam's car. "Need to work off some of this extra adrenaline."

Sam chuckles, his long hair falling into his eyes as he shakes his head. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" he teases, starting the engine.

Brittany blushes and Santana kicks at a non-existent rock, hands in her pockets, and they both look the epitome of the shy teenage wannabe couple it's ridiculous.

"Bye Sam," Brittany says pointedly and he pulls off laughing, Puck following and giving Santana an annoyingly embarrassing thumbs-up sign and she just wants to bury her head in the dirt or something.

Silently, they start the walk home and she avoids looking at Brittany until she can't stand it and finally chances a glance over, not surprised to find Brittany twirling a drumstick and looking contemplative.

"Good night, huh?" Santana asks, wanting to kick herself.

"Yeah," Brittany agrees, eyes flashing. "I've never played in front of so many people before."

"No?" Santana asks. "You were really good though."

Brittany bumps her hips against Santana's, grinning. "_You_ were really good. Bringing down the house and everything."

Santana shrugs, looking away with a bashful smile, even though Brittany complimenting her has to be the best feeling ever.

"Hey, wait," Brittany says suddenly, stopping and reaching for Santana's arm to stop her too, her sticks firmly grasped in her right hand.

"What's wrong?" Santana asks, taking note of Brittany's faintly furrowed brow.

"You've got something…" Brittany says, leaning into Santana's face and before Santana can even guess what's going to happen, Brittany's kissing her, a delicate peck landing just at the corner of Santana's lips.

Brittany pulls back slowly, eyes twinkling in the moonlight, the dark making them sparkle like midnight blue sapphires. "There," she whispers, smiling softly, "Got it."

And Santana?

She does the only thing she can think to.

She pulls Brittany in again, her hand fisting the girl's t-shirt, and kisses her hard, her heartbeat matching the drum cadence Brittany's always playing.

***o*O*o***

**One Week Later…**

"Where are they?" Kurt asks, rubbing his temples. "We only have two more rehearsals until our next show."

"Chillax, Homoboy Hummel," Puck says, helping Mercedes tune up her bass, "She'll be here in a few."

"Unbelievable," Kurt murmurs, "We finally get a little recognition and my lead guitarist and drummer decide to go a.w.o.l. Do you people hate me? Is that it?"

"Kurt," Blaine starts, stepping up behind him and rubbing his shoulders, "Honey, I love you but you have the worst gaydar of any person I've ever met, gay or straight. Don't you think there's a reason that neither Brittany nor Santana has arrived yet?"

"Yeah Kurt," Tina laughs, playing scales with Mike standing behind her, playfully messing her up, "Haven't you noticed all the looks?"

"And dude," Sam adds, "Santana lives here. They're _totally_ getting their mack on upstairs."

Kurt blanches, staring up at the roof of the garage like he can actually see through the plaster three levels up to what's going on up there. "Okay, now I'm _definitely_ sending another text."

***o*O*o***

Santana's phone beeps again but she couldn't care less, more than willing to immerse her whole being into girl lying atop her, kiss-swollen lips moving against her own.

Brittany pulls away, her teeth lightly tugging on Santana's bottom lip as she does so and she grins, watching Santana's eyes flutter open.

"I love kissing you," Brittany whispers, her left hand trailing up and down Santana's side, inching the girl's t-shirt up so that it reveals just an inch or so of warm skin.

Santana, her own hand still running through Brittany's hair, smiles. "Me too," she breathes and Brittany chuckles.

"You like kissing you too?"

"Mmmhmm," Santana teases, reaching up to capture Brittany's lips again, "It's the best," she murmurs between feather light pecks.

Brittany giggles cutely. "You're so silly," she mumbles, kissing Santana's nose and then smoothing out the crinkles that form in response.

"Sexy," Santana quips, kissing her chin.

"That too," Brittany grins then sighs, hearing Santana's phone go off once again. "Maybe we should go to rehearsal. I don't want them to hate me."

"Psh," Santana dismisses, quickly flipping Brittany over and quietly adoring the little squeak she gets in response, "They could never hate you. And if anyone tries to give you a hard time just tell me and I'll kick they're ass because no one messes with my girlfriend," she finishes, moving in to kiss her again but Brittany holds her hand up, keeping some distance between them, an odd, perplexed look on her face.

"Girlfriend?" she asks hesitantly and Santana's stomach bottoms out, instantly anxious.

She swallows tightly, gathering all the courage she has within before nodding. "Yeah," she says, but it's barely a whisper. "Yeah. If that's okay."

Brittany's smile starts slow but it keeps going and going until it's almost splitting her face in half. "That's totally okay," she says quietly, tugging Santana's shirt collar and melding their mouths together again.

Rehearsal's going to have to wait.


	37. Go For The Gold

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Apologies in advance for any grammatical/spelling errors. I'm flying solo on my work for a while so it's to be expected I guess. Thanks to everyone who's still reading and an even bigger thank you to those who leave reviews. Nothing like a little feedback as motivation.

* * *

><p>Brittany looks up, reading the banner that says <em>Welcome American Olympians<em> with a small smile, and though she's been here before, she still can't help the knot that works its way into her throat.

While she can probably try to attribute that sensation to the freaking uniform tie she's wearing pressing against her throat, she suspects it has more to do with representing one's country not being something you ever really get used to.

They're at the opening night mixer, the traditional meet and greet just after the opening ceremonies for the United States Olympians. It's kind of this all American-owned company sponsored soiree and Brittany thinks they go _way _overboard with the Patriotism.

Red, white, and blue is everywhere. They've even painted an American flag on the floor

But, she gets it, and this little proud feeling settles into her stomach when she realizes that she's a part of it.

Again.

"Any easier to take in the second time around, kid?"

Brittany turns toward the source of the voice, easily finding her idols grinning at her proudly.

"No," Brittany says, smiling like an idiot as she shakes her head, "Still just as amazing."

Kerri laughs, bumping elbows with her former playing partner turned commentator Misty, "Still sounds like a rookie, doesn't she M&M?"

"I don't know, Kerri," Misty chides as well, "I think it's good luck if you never gets used to it."

"Luck," Kerri says. "Who needs luck? Now that you and I are retired, this one's as good as gold."

She winks at Brittany and the younger woman blushes, never very used to compliments from people she admires and respects.

"Good luck," Misty adds as the pair turns to leave. "And tell Quinn to bump higher on her digs. She's setting you up too low," she adds as an afterthought.

"I will," Brittany calls back, watching them go.

***o*O*o***

"These are the dumbest uniforms. I feel like a boy scout," Sugar complains, tugging at the bow tie they've all been forced to wear as mandatory opening ceremony uniform.

"I don't know," Kurt says, fiddling with his white belt, "I kinda like them."

"They were designed by Ralph Lauren," Santana says, absently, still staring around in awe. "Of course you like them."

There are so many people here, people she recognizes from countless hours spent perusing the 2016 Olympics website and studying the numerous programs and pamphlets they'd been given prior to traveling to Brazil.

She'd been intent on cherishing every moment of this experience. It is, after all, her first Olympics and after years of hard work and dedication, she's finally reached this pinnacle of achievement – one she'd only dreamed of in her wildest imaginings. Brushing shoulders and standing amongst gold, silver, and bronze medalists both past and (hopefully) future.

It's nothing short of amazing that she's here among them – one of the hundreds of American athletes selected to make their country proud, and it all comes crashing in on her now, as she stands amidst the sea of red, white, and blue.

She's an Olympian.

She's living history.

She's…going to throw up.

"Whoa, jeez. You look a little green," Kurt says and she leans against him heavily.

"I think I may have overestimated my calm. I am no longer it – calm, that is. I am very not calm. I am…uncalm. I'm un-fucking-calm."

"You're fine," Kurt says reassuringly, rubbing his friend's back. "Just remember that you're ranked number one in the world. It's what I do. Now, Sugar on the other hand, seems to be having some issues."

"What?" the woman he's alluding to asks, whipping her head back around to face them. She'd just been frantically searching the crowds.

"What is wrong with you?" he asks. "What are you looking for?"

"I'm not looking for anyone," Sugar answers too quickly, ignoring both Kurt and Santana's questioning looks. "C'mon. I spy cheese cubes."

***o*O*o***

"There you are, girl," Tina says, gesturing to the open seat next to her. "We've been looking for you."

"And by looking she totally means hanging out with the men's soccer team," Quinn corrects with a knowing smile. "You know those soccer-heads like to stick together."

"Hey," Tina says, ignoring their laughter, "What can I say? That Chang boy's put on some muscle and it suits him in the _best_ way."

"You're so boy-crazy," Brittany teases, reaching for the pitcher of water. "So, what'd I miss?"

"Nothing major," Tina shrugs. "The gymnastics team came over to say hi. Actually, I think it was more like Sam awkwardly trying to flirt with Miss Q, here. They've got a new one this year, but I think he's totally for team Rainbow. Oh, and Rachel was here but I lost her," she finishes, flippantly.

"You lost her because you purposely sent her to the other side of the arena in search of non-existent yogurt balls."

"I don't see how that's a problem," Tina deadpans.

"Ladies, Ladies. We meet again."

Brittany rolls her eyes, instantly annoyed and it only gets worse when she feels his hulking presence just over her shoulder.

He happens to be her ex-boyfriend (or whatever the hell they were) and reigning silver beach-volleyball winner, Noah Puckerman. He's an asshole – just to put it out there – and usually Brittany doesn't like using words like that but sometimes there really is no alternative.

"Hey Brittany," Puck whispers. "Did you miss me?"

She shrugs her shoulder up, just missing catching him hard on the chin.

"Oh-o," Puck laughs, pulling back with a smug grin, sharing an amused look with his partner in play, Finn Hudson. "Someone's feeling a little feisty."

"What do you want Noah?" Quinn asks, ever defensive.

"What? We can't say hi to our fellow beach volleyball teammates?" Puck asks with faux innocence. "My feelings are hurt, Q."

"Really, Noah?" Quinn asks him, giving him a look he can't altogether read. "You're saying hi. You sure you don't want to apologize for the way you left things in London?" she asks, shooting a pointed look in Brittany's direction, her playing-mate staring off into the distance with a frown.

"Oh, come on, Britt," Puck laughs stupidly. "You can't still be mad about that. What happened in London was just harmless fun. We both had a good time," he says, trailing off as a few members of the women's swim team walk by. "And, you chicas are going to have to excuse me for a minute. Cheer up, Pierce. Hopefully, we can rekindle the flame one of these nights."

Quinn watches him slide away with a look of disgust on her face. "Worse decision in your life, Brittany. I swear."

"I know Quinn," Brittany cuts her off, ripping up a discarded napkin. "Don't have to remind me. I'm gonna go help Rachel find those yogurt balls," she says, sliding off her seat dejectedly.

"Britt, wait," Quinn says.

Tina throws a cheese cube at Quinn's head. "See what you did."

***o*O*o***

"You try it," Kurt says, thrusting the cracker up into her face.

"No way," Santana frowns, pushing his hand away. "It smells like fish."

"Well yeah…" Kurt says in a duh, fashion. "It's caviar. But, you know, isn't fish kinda right up your alley?"

"Oh my God," Sugar gasps theatrically. "I just saw Derrick Rose."

"Do you even know who that is?" Santana asks her, seriously doubting that she does.

"No idea. But I just saw him."

"Okay, Sugar. Your turn," Kurt says, presenting the loaded cracker to her instead. "Santana and I have both tried it."

"Oooh, gimme," Sugar squeals, eyes going wide with excitement before she stuffs the whole thing into her mouth, Kurt and Santana looking on watchfully.

She chews thoughtfully for a moment before her nose wrinkles up in disgust, forgoing the napkin Kurt holds out to her and instead spitting the slightly masticated food into the nearest glass she can find – the one in Ryan Lochte's hand.

Sugar looks up at him, mouth opening and closing comically in search of words.

"We're just gonna…yeah," Kurt says, grabbing her and tugging her along before the swimmer can say anything.

By the time they reach the champagne tower – which no one's drinking by the way because they're athletes in training, dumbass sponsors – Santana and Kurt are laughing so hard that they don't notice the other person staring at the champagne marvel.

"I can't believe you guys made me do that," Sugar says, laughing along anyway. "I'm so embarrassed."

"Oh puh-lease," Kurt drawls. "That'll probably be the highlight of our lives. And did you see his face?"

"Spitting in Ryan Lochte's glass," Santana giggles happily. "Classic."

"You spit in Ryan's glass?"

Santana turns toward the source of the question and instantly her giggles die down as she finds herself face to face with…with what happens when perfection meets flawless.

"Uh," she stutters.

"She did," Kurt answers, pointing behind him to Sugar. "But she didn't mean to."

"Caviar's just really yucky," Sugar supplies helpfully.

"Oh, tell me about it," the woman says with an honest smile and something about it seems vaguely familiar Santana thinks. "I got dared to eat a whole jar once. Won a hundred bucks. Spent the night hugging a toilet."

"Unfortunate," Kurt says kindly.

"Look," the woman says, twiddling her little uniform tie, "forgive me for asking if it should be obvious or something but I'm curious and that's what these mixers are supposed to be for anyway, but what are you guys doing here?"

Kurt's eyebrow pops up. "Excuse me?"

"Like, what sport do you play?" the woman clarifies.

"Oh, we're fencers," Kurt answers, gesturing to all of them.

Santana averts her gaze when she notices the woman's eyes glaze over, clearly unfamiliar with their event. It stings just a little, but she's used to it at this point.

Fencing's just not that popular.

"That's…cool," the woman says, smiling genuinely. "I'm a volleyball player. Beach volleyball," she adds and suddenly the pieces fall into place for Santana as she instantly reconciles the person standing before her with page six of the outdoor sports section.

"You're Brittany Pierce," she can't seem to stop herself from saying and then the woman's looking at her again, eyes twinkling as she now smiles full-force at Santana.

"One and the same," she says, squaring her shoulders just slightly.

"I'm surprised it took you so long to figure it out, Santana," Sugar says, now snacking on some grapes to wash away the caviar taste. "She, like, bookmarked your page in the book we all got. But, in her defense, you are wearing a _lot_ more clothes now," the young woman adds, much to Santana's embarrassment.

"Is that right?" Brittany asks looking thoroughly amused.

"Yeah, well, I marked all the high-potential goal medalists' pages," Santana murmurs with a shrug, avoiding Brittany's eyes.

Kurt and Sugar share a knowing look.

"Hey Britt!" a young Asian girl calls, waving the blonde over to a raucous table. "Alex, Syd, and Abby said to bring your ass over here!"

"Crap," Brittany murmurs, her smile dimming just slightly. "I gotta take off but, I'll see you guys around?" she asks, hopeful eyes on a still aloof Santana.

"Definitely," Sugar nods definitively and Brittany grins again, briefly and brazenly stroking Santana's arm before taking off in a blur of blonde hair.

***o*O*o***

"I don't know why you won't even consider it," Sugar calls out from the bathroom, followed by a hearty gargle.

Santana lies on her back in her bed, staring at the whirring blades of the hotel ceiling fan.

She didn't get to talk to Brittany again that night but they'd met eyes on several occasions – Brittany offering a smile and Santana managing to grimace back – and now Sugar and Kurt are intent in thinking that Brittany like likes her or something which isn't true…like, at all.

And even if it were true she's not even going there because that's not what this trip is about.

She's supposed to go for the gold not go for the girl.

No.

No time for you Miss Brittany S. Pierce.

_Even if you do have the most exceptionally dreamy blue eyes._

Santana shakes her head just as Sugar rejoins her, diving headlong onto her own bed as Santana's starts her explanation. "Because, one: she's probably not even into girls."

"But-"

"Two: even if she is into girls, did you see how she looked when we told her we were fencers? She wouldn't be into _me_."

"Now that's-"

"And three: and this I most important so listen up. Even if she is into girls _and_ is into me it doesn't matter because I'm not here for that," Santana concludes resolutely. "I'm here to win a gold medal and nothing – _nothing _– is going to keep me from that."

Sugar sighs, turning so that she's lying on her side and facing her friend and teammate. "You want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly, no."

"I think you're being a dumb dodo-head _and _I think Brittany likes you-"

Santana snorts. "She doesn't-"

"_And_," Sugar continues, ignoring Santana's refutes, "I think you like her too. The little hearts on page six tell me so."

Santana's jaw snap shut.

"_P-owned_."

***o*O*o***

"Q," Brittany calls, slipping her sleep shirt over her still damp hair.

"Hmm?" Quinn asks, emerging from the bathroom leaving a haze of steam in her wake as she wraps the dry towel around her body.

"So I was hanging out with the soccer ladies and you know that one chick, Rachel Berry?" Brittany asks, sliding into bed.

"The really short one?" Quinn asks, rifling through her luggage for her sleepwear. "Yeah. What about her?"

"I think she was hitting on me," Brittany says, frowning up her face.

Quinn laughs, sliding on some shorts. "And? What; you're suddenly not into that?"

Brittany tosses Quinn a knowing look. "No, I'm serious. It creeped me out."

"Why?" Quinn asks, seemingly curious as she tosses the towel into a far corner. "Rachel's…semi-attractive."

"Uh oh, Quinn," Brittany teases, a silly smile on her face. "You coming over to the dark side? Am I gonna have to have another awkward talk with Mr. Russell about how I'm not trying to corrupt his daughter?"

"No," Quinn says, giving Brittany an unimpressed look over her shoulder that makes the other woman crack up. "I can acknowledge another woman is attractive without meaning anything by it, you know."

"Uh huh," Brittany laughs. "Sure Quinn."

"Whatever," Quinn says, sliding into her own t-shirt. "Why don't you like Rachel?"

"I don't know," Brittany shrugs. "A lot of reasons. She talks too fast and she's always jittery. It's like she's on eighteen Redbulls and a 5-hour energy. She's like one of those bumble-balls, Q."

"I see…"Quinn says, finally climbing into her bed. "Are you sure that this sudden disregard for Rachel's unfounded interest in you doesn't have anything to do with a certain mysterious woman you were making eyes at all night?"

Brittany – even under the cover of darkness – cannot hide her blush. "You noticed that, huh?" she asks, sheepish as ever.

"Of course I noticed," Quinn says, carefully watching her friend. "I'm your partner. Who is she?"

Brittany grins. "I couldn't really get much because she doesn't really talk but her name's Santana and she's a…builder or something? I guess they're like grounds crew for the events. They didn't really make it clear but she's super-hot and cute and I caught the tail-end of her laugh… . ."

Quinn lets her gush for as long – and possibly a little bit longer – than she can stomach it before she cuts her off with a gentle reminder. "She sounds nice but remember what we're here for, Britt."

Brittany sighs deeply, all of her enthusiasm drained in one fell swoop. "To win a gold medal," she mumbles dutifully, though she doesn't sound overjoyed in the least.

"Hey, I'm just going by what you said," Quinn defends. "And you said-"

"I know what I said," Brittany cuts her off. "No hook-ups, no handcuffs, and no hot stuff until we win the gold."

Quinn nods. "You swore on Lord Tubbington."

"Okay," Brittany agrees, tugging her covers up high over her shoulders. "I won't try anything with her," she says, ending the discussion as she turns away from Quinn in bed, concealing her growing smile.

"Yet," Brittany whispers.

***o*O*o***

"Santana! Get up!"

Santana pops up like her beds on springs which…wait, isn't it on springs?

It doesn't matter because Kurt's trying to either kill her or sexually assault her – possibly both – because he's now jumped on top of her in a full-body bed hug that's currently preventing her from breathing.

"Kurt," she gasps, managing to twist her head to the side to breathe and speak, "I am two seconds away from seriously dismantling your man-mane. Explain yourself."

"Ah!" Kurt screams/yells, jumping off of her in a flash, worriedly patting at his hair. He glares at a rapidly waking Santana. "_That_ was uncalled for."

"So was the solar plexus bed bounce. We're even. Now, why have you lost your damn mind?"

"Okay, there are two of the cutest young men down in the lobby and they're waiting on us-"

"Bye Kurt," Santana says, flopping back down onto her bed.

"No, don't," Kurt pleads. "Okay, so I know guys aren't really your forte but I need a friend and you're it because I can't get Sugar up. I literally dragged Sugar out of bed and nothing."

Santana peers over to her right and sure enough Sugar's body is hanging out of the queen-sized bed, her butt in the air as her deep snores penetrate the quiet.

She looks back to Kurt, his pleading eyes and clasped hands all the persuasion needed as she groans heavily, giving in.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you," Kurt says, pecking her cheek three times in rapid succession. "If we were both straight I'd…have no idea what to do to you sexually but I'd Google the crap out of it."

***o*O*o***

Sugar, it turns out, was completely awake the entire time she just didn't, and Santana quotes, "feel like playing the bubbly breeder buddy to a group of giggly gay boys. Sorry, Aspergers'."

She quickly came to animation when Santana begrudgingly agreed to join and now the three of them were casually jogging alongside Rio de Janiero's beautiful coastline with Sam Evans and Blaine Anderson, two members of the U.S. men's gymnastics team.

Now, Santana's gaydar is not very adept, but after catching Sam's eyes wandering over the few scattered beach-goers with boobs, she's fairly certain that he and Kurt are not playing for the same team. But the Blaine guy?

Oh yeah.

He's one of them for sure.

"It's really difficult to find the right amount of product, you know?" Blaine says to Kurt jogging along. "I mean, we sweat a lot so naturally I want something light so as to not have it dripping onto my face but at the same time I'd look like Screech before the haircut – and horridly edited adult video – without it."

"I know what you mean," Kurt says, sound breathless, though Santana doubts it's because of the running, "I have the same issue when it comes to my helmet. This head and helmet hair are not attractive at all."

"I find that hard to believe," Blaine flirts shamelessly and Santana rolls her eyes at the corniness of it all while Sam chuckles good-naturedly.

Suddenly, there's a bright flash accompanied by a popping noise that stops them all in their tracks…by throwing them all to the ground.

"The fuck is going on?" Puck asks, stumbling in the sand suddenly underfoot, his fingers still fiddling with his zipper. "There's no toilet in here." He gasps. "Is this Narnia?"

"Uncle Puck?" Sugar sighs wearily, rubbing a hand over her face and racing over to shove him quickly into the rapidly closing rip in the space-time continuum before too many people take notice.

"Whoa," he yelps, nearly entirely visible. "Is that Santana? Fuck me-"

"God," Sugar mutters, feelings eyes at her back, "If those idiots would just stay out of my room."

"Did…" Santana starts to ask, feeling a little crazy as she does so, "Did that guy just disappear?"

"What guy?" Sugar asks, hoping an air of complete daftness will get her off the hook.

"That guy," Santana continues, still butt-down in the sand, "That guy that was just there," she says, pointing into the near-distance.

"I didn't see any guy," Sugar says, scanning the beach quickly before her eyes light up. "But, hey, there's that Brittany lady you like. BBRRRIIITTANYYYYY!"

Sure enough the blonde woman is indeed on the beach, carefully tossing a volleyball back and forth with who Santana has come to learn is her playing partner, Quinn Fabray.

Sam, quickly endearing himself to her by helping her up out of the sand without leering down her shirt, offers her a small smile and a playful nudge. "You like Britt?"

"No," Santana answers defensively, contemplating whether or not she can just dash off into the water without being detected.

"Yes she does," Kurt and Sugar answer at the same time, making the other two guys laugh just as Brittany finally catches up to them, Quinn in tow.

"Hey," she says brightly in greeting, panting slightly as she sidles up next to Santana, "It's the fencers and Blaine and Sam."

"Wait, you guys know each other?" Sugar asks, pointing between the two men and the two women.

"Of course," Blaine answers. "We all hung out during the last Olympics. Cheered each other on at comps. It's fun."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, casually tossing an arm around Quinn's shoulders. "It's like the world's ultimate Quidditch cup and we all go to Hogwarts."

Brittany laughs at Santana's 'wtf' face, bumping her with her hip lightly. "You'll have to get used to Sam and his weird references if you're gonna be hanging out with us."

Blaine laughs along with everyone else. "We're good as long as he doesn't break out the Tolkien."

Sam frowns. "You don't want to be my Frodo, bro?"

Brittany, noting that everyone else is apparently interested in Sam and his reasons for why Blaine would make the perfect Frodo, uses this opportunity to get to know a little bit more about Santana.

"So…" she starts, touching the other woman's arm to get her attention, "It must suck to have to work so hard while you're here. I mean, do you have any time to enjoy it between events?"

Santana frowns. "Well, I mean, I wouldn't expect it to be easy but, yeah, we get some down time. This is down time right now, actually," she says, before adding dryly, "Though I wouldn't call a couple mile jog down-time."

"I know what you mean," Brittany laughs. "Quinn's idea of downtime involves launching a volleyball at top speed at my head. She's a bit of a workaholic."

"When's your first match?"

"Couple days," Brittany shrugs. "I'm not too worried about it though. We've pretty much owned the Chinese teams." Brittany looks around for a moment before lowering her voice and motioning for Santana to come closer. "This is kinda racist to say but they're too short."

Santana giggles at that, her eyes lighting up delightfully. "I'm sure you'll be great."

"Did you wanna," Brittany starts, kicking at the sand lightly, "…come see me play?"

"Oh," Santana's face falls. "I don't think I'll be able to. We'll probably be training for our event."

"Training…" Brittany says questioningly. "Wait, you're an athlete?"

Santana blinks. "Um, yes. I'm a fencer. I told you."

The way Brittany's eyes glaze over this time strikes a chord with Santana that has nothing to do with resentment and all of a sudden, she's amused again. "You have no idea what that is, do you?"

"I didn't want to say that and then sound like an asshole," Brittany laughs ruefully, her cheeks reddening lightly the longer Santana laughs at her expense. "Okay, it's not that funny," the blonde says.

"I'm sorry," Santana says, still chuckling slightly. "It's just that I assumed you thought I was a loser or something. I'm just relieved I guess."

"That I don't think you're a loser?"

Santana finally calms, sighing beautifully. "Yes."

"Yeah, I don't," Brittany says easily and Santana feels her chest warm at the look she's being given. She's never used the word fond before but she thinks that's what it looks like. "I think you're a very remarkable person Santana."

Santana feels the space between them shrink and she can't exactly tell if Brittany's moving closer or if she's drifting toward the other woman. There's a swift wind blowing their hair all about and as the dark and light locks sway together, there's this odd fluttering in the base of her tummy that quickens in frequency the nearer they draw to one another.

Then Brittany flinches, pulling away and rubbing rapidly at the top of her head. "Damn it, Quinn!"

"Practice," Quinn says pointedly, her eyes daring Brittany to say something else. "Now!"

"I'll see you later," Brittany murmurs, leaving Santana waiting in the wind both literally and figuratively.

***o*O*o***

"Quinn if we're late I swear I will dispose of every pack of bacon within a twenty mile radius. Do not tempt me. I will make it happen."

After being granted a rare off-day by the driven Quinn (and their even more determined Coach whom Brittany neglected to tell that they were going out and may have possibly given a small dose of Nyquil), Brittany decided to make rounds to the different Olympic events.

So what if Quinn's propensity to avoid crowds meant having to go to the lesser known events.

And so what she just _happened _to pass by The Francisco Rodriguez Convention Center at eleven AM when Santana's match was due to start.

And so what if Quinn totally called her out on it like ten minutes ago when Brittany almost speedwalk-sideswiped this elderly lady with a cane, she is _going_ to see Santana compete or Quinn is _going _to have to find another playing partner.

Okay, so maybe that's a little extreme but at least Quinn now knows she means business.

"You know, for a woman you're not supposed to be actively pursuing," Quinn says, flashing her credentials to the security guard before stepping into the main gymnasium, "You do seem to be doing a lot of pursuing. Actively."

Brittany sneers at Quinn's smirk, looking around for the directional sign that indicates Floor C. "I'm just laying the groundwork. Who knows? Maybe I can win my medal and get a super-hot girlfriend."

Quinn takes her by the shoulders, pushing her to the right where a huge banner reads _FENCING_, unable to stop herself from laughing when Brittany zero-to-sixty's them in that direction.

"Who's already got you whipped, I see," Quinn jokes, trailing Brittany up the bleachers until they finally come to their seats where Blaine and Sam are already waiting. "Impressed, I am."

"Did you just do a Yoda impression?" Sam asks, jaw slackened as he stares up at Quinn.

"So right for one another," Blaine comments absently, scooting over a seat.

"Did we miss it?" Brittany asks, peering down at the floor. "Did she go yet?"

"Not sure," Blaine shrugs, settling into his own seat. "We just got here like two seconds before you guys."

"Nope," Quinn points out, spotting Santana standing and saluting the sparse crowd as she's informally introduced.

The four of them make so much noise that Santana actually spots them, Brittany catching the other woman's eye and grinning broadly.

"Whoa," Blaine says, watching the last few seconds of Kurt's match on the giant monitors, "This is kind of intense."

"Are those, like, real swords?" Sam asks, eyes big.

"I hope not," Brittany replies, a tinge of worry creeping into her voice.

"This has the potential to be really cool," Blaine whispers, creeping forward in his seat as the formal announcements commence.

"_And representing the United States of America, Santana Lopez!_"

Santana raises a hand to the audience, salutes the judges, the referee, and then her opponent – a chick seemingly twice her size from Russia – Brittany realizes with a slight frown, even as her friends cheer around her.

"These things aren't sorted by weight class," she asks Quinn and Quinn shrugs, making Brittany's frown deepen. "I don't get fencing."

"Me neither," Sam agrees. "It not like there's an actual fence involved."

***o*O*o***

It doesn't take long for the bout to get underway and it takes even less time for Brittany and the rest to get thoroughly invested.

"It's like Peter Pan," Brittany whispers breathlessly and the chorus of marveled _Mmmhmms_ she receives in response only solidifies her thought that fencing's actually kind of cool.

Couple that with the fact that Santana Lopez appears to be winning – if Brittany's judging the crowd's reaction correctly – and it might be her new favorite sport.

She doesn't really get the rules, like what constitutes a point or a hit – and luckily for her there's an older gentleman nearby explaining the intricacies of the sport to his son – but she jumps every time that ogre lunges at the woman who's quickly captured her interest, almost closing her eyes at one point, and glad she hadn't a moment later as Santana avoids the hit with a swift sidestep and connecting a lunge of her own.

It's over in a matter of minutes, which, according to the man with his son, isn't typical – Santana's just _that_ good and before she knows it, they're all clamoring down the bleacher steps toward the athlete's waiting pitch.

"That. Was. Awesome."

"Wicked cool, Santana."

"The force is strong within you, young Skywalker."

Santana preens a little under the compliments, still catching her breath mostly. "Thanks, all of you," she laughs lightly, helmet still tucked under her arm.

Brittany's still mostly speechless until Quinn nudges her discreetly. "Great," Brittany manages to splutter out. "You were great."

Santana looks down shyly, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips but before she can say anything in response a reporter from ESPN touches Santana's elbow.

"Got time for a brief interview, Ms. Lopez?" the man asks, recorder at the ready.

Santana looks at Brittany, torn, but Brittany waves her on. "Go ahead. I'll catch up to you later."

"You sure?" Santana asks, looking a little nervous.

"Yeah," Brittany smiles reassuringly. "Now go and be," Brittany winks, "remarkable."

***o*O*o***

"You like her," Kurt says, his lips twisted in a smirk.

Santana frowns and then makes a run at him with several non-composed attack strikes which he parries with ease.

Brittany wasn't around after her interview, much to Santana's disappointment. The woman did however leave a note with Blaine explaining that their Coach had turned up at the gymnasium to collect them and something else about Nyquil that Santana didn't really get but she was mostly grateful that Brittany hadn't just blown her off.

Not that Santana is interested in Brittany like _that_ or anything.

She was just concerned because Brittany said she'd be there and she wasn't and any person would wonder, right?

Now though, she and Kurt – Sugar's conspicuously absent, _again_ – are training since they both have bouts the next day. Well, she's training. Kurt's mostly trying to get on her nerves.

"It's okay to like her, Santana," Kurt grits out, advancing on her with a few strikes of his own. "You're gay after all."

"I'm not here," she breathes out when she connects against his vest, "for that. I'm here," Santana spins, avoiding a composed lunge from Kurt easily, "to win a gold medal."

"As am I," Kurt assures her, connecting a hit of his own, before stopping altogether and throwing off his mask. "Doesn't mean I can't stop to smell the roses. And by roses I mean the men's gymnastics team and by smell I mean gawk at."

"You're incorrigible," Santana shakes her head as she pulls off her own mask, revealing the beginnings of a smile.

Kurt winks. "And you love it."

"Hey Santana!"

Both Kurt and Santana looks up at the intrusion, and Santana's eyes narrow in suspicion when Sugar rushes over to them, her smile a mile wide.

"So…" Sugar starts, her hips twitching swiftly as she quickly moves to meet them (she's also wearing the shortest shorts that accent her legs perfectly but for some strange reason Santana harbors absolute zero attraction to her teammate), "…you'll never guess who I ran into in the caf'," she continues, almost squealing with excitement as she gives a little jump.

"By your enthusiasm," Kurt assesses, giving her the once over as he mops his brow, "I'd say a cute boy of some sort. Famous possibly?"

"Well I don't know about famous and I'm definitely not a boy, but I'll take cute," none other than Brittany Pierce says, mysteriously – but not really if Sugar's smirk is any indication – walking up behind them, graceful as ever as she steps up onto their training platform.

Kurt comes to life immediately, fingers rapidly fixing his unkempt coif – best to look your best in front of living Olympic history – before he's reaching out to shake her hand, foil and mask tucked securely under his free arm, "Brittany S. Pierce," he says, "It's nice to meet you again."

Brittany looks at his hand weird, a strange smile on her face, but she just curls his fingers up into a fist and bumps it once in greeting. "Same to you," she grins, her blue eyes seemingly dancing as they flow from his face, to Sugar's, then to Santana's. "And you," she adds cheekily, tilting her head a little.

Santana finds the mat suddenly very interesting. "Hi," she mumbles shyly.

"You know what?" Sugar starts, moving to Kurt's side and threading an arm through his, "I just remembered that I have to show you this…thing."

"What thing?" Kurt asks confused.

"You know," Sugar says, dramatically giving him the eye, "The _thing_."

"Oh right," Kurt nods, finally cottoning on, "_That_ thing." He laughs prettily. "Silly me."

"Come on," Sugar mumbles, tugging him along and Brittany watches amusedly as they walk away.

"Now, I kinda wanna know about the thing," she jokes but it falls flat with the rapidly panicking Santana.

"Huh?"

"The…thing?" Brittany points behind her a little, her smile falling just a bit when Santana doesn't get it. "So, you guys were practicing?"

Santana looks confused for another moment until Brittany gestures to the foil still in her hand and Santana whips it up quickly, startling Brittany in the process.

"Whoa, be careful with that thing," she says, laughing it off but still mostly serious.

Santana laughs as well. "It can't hurt you," she assures her, before adding after taking in Brittany's skeptical look, "Well, I mean, of course it _can_ but I won't let it."

"Well," Brittany drawls flirtatiously, "That's good to know."

Santana's bravado sloughs away then, and she toes the mat platform, her shoes squeaking loudly as she mutters out a "Yeah."

"So, how long have you been doing the, uh, fencing thing?" Brittany asks, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Since I was eight," Santana answers, passing the foil from hand to the other nervously. "My parents asked me what sport I wanted to play and this was it, so…"

"Really?" Brittany asks, looking at her strangely and Santana bristles a little, her brows frowning.

"Sorry," Brittany says, ever-observant, "But, no offense, I didn't even know what fencing was until two days ago. It just seems kind of weird that you'd pick it out of everything else. I mean, did someone else fence in your family?"

"No," Santana answers quickly, growing meek once again. "Okay I'll tell you but you can't laugh."

Brittany's lips quirk up in a small smile. "I won't."

"You know those stories they tell us when we're little kids?" Santana asks, rolling her eyes at herself a little when Brittany just looks at her quizzically. "You know, where the princess is trapped up in the tower and there's a fire-breathing dragon guarding the tower and it's up to the prince to save her?"

Brittany's smile widens. "So you were like, 'forget the prince, I'm gonna kick ass and get my own self out of this tower'."

"Close," Santana admits with a slight shrug, "It was more, 'I'm gonna save that princess'."

If Brittany's surprised at all by this revelation, she doesn't let on. In fact, her grin just brightens. "That's cute."

Santana blushes.

***o*O*o***

"How did I let you talk me into this?"

Santana chuckles, tightening her spare jacket around Brittany's torso. The sleeves are much too short. "Your limbs are longer than mine."

"Does that mean I'll have an advantage?" Brittany asks, shifting awkwardly in the too small protective gear.

Santana laughs loudly, moving in front of Brittany to slide the mask carefully over her head. "No."

She steps back to admire her handiwork, her own facemask perched atop her head. "This actually looks kind of good on you," she admits, trying to appear casual but Brittany catches the glint in her eyes.

"Puh-lease," Brittany says, "I can make a nun's habit look good."

"And you're so modest too," Santana jokes, handing her a foil, corked at the tip for safety reasons. She takes a couple of more steps back, smirking cockily at Brittany before tossing her head forward quickly, her mask falling snugly in place. "Are you ready?"

Brittany crouches, much like she's seen pirates do in movies. "Come at me Bro," she murmurs, concentrating on Santana's hands.

Santana snorts.

This is going to be way too much fun.

***o*O*o***

"Ah!" Brittany yells, her grip on the foil slackening as she brings her hands up to protect her face. "Don't stab me."

"Brittany," Santana says through an enamored sigh, standing over the taller woman and lifting up her own mask, "I told you it doesn't work that way. I'm not going to stab you."

"Sorry," Brittany grunts out, still lying flat on her back and having no idea how it happened…again. "It's just I see a sword and it's instinct, you know?"

"I'm sure," Santana murmurs dryly, trying not to smile at Brittany's exasperated sigh.

She helps her up, Brittany taking off her mask while trying to catch her breath.

A beat.

"You're good."

Santana smiles. "Thank you."

"I mean, like, scary good. And fast," Brittany assesses. "I bet you've saved a lot of princesses."

Santana frowns, reading the double-meaning behind what Brittany's trying to say. "Um, not really-"

"Hey," Brittany interrupts, speaking before she loses her nerve, "I've got a match tomorrow. Well, we do. Quinn and I, and I was wondering if you'd like to-"

"Sure," Santana cuts her off quickly.

"You wanna go?" Brittany smiles.

"I'd love to see you play," Santana says, answering Brittany's smile with one of her own.

"Cool," Brittany says.

"Cool," Santana echoes.

***o*O*o***

Brittany scans the crowd all during warm-ups and when her third jump-serve catches the top of the net, Quinn glares at her.

"Brittany, what the hell?"

"I'm sorry," Brittany says, shaking her head to try to regain focus.

Their opponents – the number six ranked in the world duo from Russia – watch them with not so subtle smiles of amusement and Brittany feels an unwelcome feeling settle in the pit of her stomach.

"Where's your head at?" Quinn hisses when she's close enough that only Brittany will hear her.

"It's here," Brittany assures her, wiggling her toes in the sand. "I'm here."

"No, you're not," Quinn says, moving closer. "Look, I know your bummed that little Miss Lance-A-Lot didn't show, but we've still got a match to win. Now, I suggest you turn all of that sexual frustration into motivation and kick some Soviet ass because I'm not losing to these bitches. One of them looks like my ex's current and it's pissing me off."

Brittany nods, swallowing tightly as she peers up into the sun, the brightness forcing her to squint even though she's wearing her shades.

She faces the stands one more time, hoping against hope to see that familiar face but she doesn't.

She does, however, suddenly hear her voice.

"Brittany!"

Quinn's bump pass bounces comically off her head as she swivels in the direction of the voice, her eyes instantly finding Santana leaning so far over one of the stantions that she looks dangerously close to toppling over onto the sand.

Brittany spares an apologetic glance toward Quinn before jogging over to Santana, smile already tattooed onto her face even at the sight of Santana's worried expression.

"Sorry I'm so late," Santana blurts out as soon as Brittany's within earshot, "Kurt had this so-called emergency but it was really just a helmet hair thing and then I got lost on the way to the venue because the streets are really weird here and then I couldn't find my credentials but fortunately one of the security guards is a fencing fan – I didn't even know we had those-"

"Santana," Brittany interrupts with a laugh, craning up to brush the softest of kisses against the woman's cheek. "I'm glad you came," she whispers into her ear, pulling away slowly, her eyes – still hidden behind the dark lenses of her glasses – tracing over the stunned, slightly darkened features of Santana's face.

"Now," Brittany says, falling back down onto ground level, "Wish me good luck."

"Good luck," Santana echoes, still a bit dazed from the kiss.

Brittany glances around, observing their audience and decides against what she wants to do – kiss Santana senseless – and instead offers her a coy, confident look.

"I'll try to make this quick."

***o*O*o***

As it turns out, as inept and uncoordinated as Brittany may be on the solid, static surface of the fencing piste, she's absolute poetry in motion barefoot in shifting sand.

She's beautiful, Santana thinks absently, and even though sliding face first into the sand can't possibly feel _good_, Brittany barely seems to notice, completely and totally focused on the game…

…The singular goal of winning.

Santana's very familiar.

But as angelic as Brittany's play may be she's also a little scary, Santana notes, watching as Brittany bares her teeth as she blocks yet another attempt at the net – which Santana has come to learn, judging by the American crowd's reaction, is good.

But, Santana can't really keep her mind on the actual _game_ because, did she fail to mention Brittany's wearing a bikini?

Because Brittany's wearing a bikini.

Just, you know, FYI.

It's a bit absurd because it's not like Santana's not seen – or dated – pretty girls before, but she can't help staring as Brittany dives this way or lunges that way, all toned muscle and glistening skin and golden hair and before she knows what's happening the crowd is on their feet, the American team supporters cheering them on for the final point.

***o*O*o***

The crowd gasps in awe as Brittany lies out completely and absorbs the contact with the sand with a grunt, barely sparing a thought to the sting of the tiny granules biting into her skin as her fist connects with the ball just before it makes contact with the ground.

The dig sends the ball straight up into the air, and she tracks it with her eyes, pushing her body back up without a moment's hesitation.

Quinn sprints toward the line, the rotation on the ball from the velocity of the serve making Quinn's set serve tricky, but she manages to give Brittany a nice set and she only has a second or so to decide the best way to put the ball away.

Glancing across net, she notices the slight hesitation in her opponents' footing as she charges the net hard, both of them deciding to drop back because Brittany's known to bring the heat in situations like this and – as suspected – Brittany's arm cranks back, ready to unleash a vicious spike down the middle.

But in the last possible instant, Brittany slows her forward momentum, nudging the ball just over the net so that it drops just on the other side, the Russians looking on helplessly as it falls to the sand with a quiet plop.

Point.

Set.

Match.

She barely has time to savor the moment before Quinn is crashing into her, sending them both into the sand as she squeals giddily.

"You're a fucking monster Brittany!" she yells, landing on top of her friend in elation.

"Ugh," Brittany grumbles, good-naturedly pushing her away, "Get off me, you cow."

"Come on," Quinn chuckles, pushing off the sand and helping Brittany up, "Let's go shake those bitches' hands while smirking like the smart ass Americans we are."

***o*O*o***

"You. Were. Awesome," Santana finally tells her.

Volleyball's notably a little more popular than fencing so Brittany and Quinn had their share of post-match interviews and sound bites to partake in before they were allowed their moments alone to revel in their victory.

And even though she's heard it too many times to count already, something about the way Santana says it makes Brittany's stomach flip over.

"Thanks," she says quietly, nerves a wreck as she re-does her ponytail – a nervous tick.

"You were good too, Quinn," Santana adds as an afterthought and Quinn rolls her eyes, still practicing her bumping exercises.

It's sort of an after game ritual, goofing off on the volleyball pitch, one Quinn doesn't usually allow spectators to, but one pout from Brittany was all it took to break that tradition.

"Well, I'm glad you thought so," Quinn says sarcastically.

"Yeah," Santana continues, "You did a great job of setting Brittany up."

Brittany snickers evilly as Quinn's half-smile falls away, "What?"

"She did a lot more than that, Santana," Brittany says, placating her best friend and playing partner.

"I didn't mean to offend you or anything. I don't really get the rules."

"There's not much to get," Brittany says with a shrug. "Hit the ball over the net and hit it hard."

Quinn's phone beeps and she tosses Brittany the ball, the other woman catching it with ease as her partner steps away.

"But there's more to it than that, right?"

"Not really," Brittany admits, "It's pretty simple. Anyone could play, really."

Santana's eyes widen as Brittany's look turns mischievous. "No way."

"Aww, c'mon. Why not?"

"Because there are people all around here and I'd rather not look like a complete idiot in front of strangers."

"But you totally kicked my butt in fencing. It's only fair."

"This is different."

"How?"

"No one was around then to see you flail comically at the air," Santana retorts, then smiles. "Man, I wish I had a camera."

Brittany gasps, pushing her playfully. "You bitch."

"Britt," Quinn calls, throwing her equipment bag over her shoulder, "I'll see you at the hotel, alright?"

"Okay," Brittany answers with a small frown, "Where are you going?"

"Um," Quinn murmurs, her cheeks coloring, "Sam wants to meet up to grab something to eat."

"Ah."

"Yeah," Quinn says, shaking her head at herself for grinning like an idiot. "See you around, Santana."

Brittany watches her leave before turning back to Santana. "Well?"

Santana's lips twitch. "Just for fun right?"

"Of course," Brittany dismisses with a 'duh' look.

"And if I fall face first into the sand it won't wind up on YouTube or something?"

"Not under my account," Brittany swears, eyes twinkling.

Santana hesitates for just a second longer before nodding and Brittany lets loose a little yelp of glee before slipping out of her hoodie and flip flops and sprinting to the other side of the net.

"Table turning time," she yells, tossing Santana the ball.

Santana just grins.

***o*O*o***

"Ugh," Santana groans, watching as the ball careens sideways again instead of where she's directing it.

Volleyball?

Much harder than it looks.

"I hate gravity," she grumbles, kicking the sand in frustration, her look turning sheepish when she spots Brittany's shoulders shaking silently.

"It's probably more of a physics thing," Brittany says, retrieving the ball and darting back to Santana. "I don't know how to tell you this but-"

"I suck?" Santana offers and Brittany winces.

"Sort of," she says pleasantly not mockingly. "But you trying so hard is all kinds of cute," she adds, reaching out to dust a bit of sand from Santana's nose.

"Yeah?" Santana asks, blinking slowly as Brittany seems to get closer.

"Yeah," Brittany whispers, leaning in but just as she's about to make contact…

"Yo! B! I thought we were banging tonight?!"

Brittany cringes, her eyes apologetic as they meet Santana's. "Hold that thought."

The blonde whirls around, frown firmly in place as she faces them dead on; them being her former boyfriend – and sleaze extraordinaire – and his partner, the reigning silver-medalists in men's beach volleyball, Noah Puckerman and Finn Hudson.

"What do you want Puckerman?"

"Whoa, chill babe," he says, smarmy grin in place. "Is that any way to greet your boyfriend?"

"You're not my boyfriend," Brittany says, turning briefly to Santana, "He's not my boyfriend."

"Who's the hottie?"

"None of your business," Brittany says, shoving him hard in the chest when he tries to peer around her. "Go away."

"Don't be that way," Puck laughs, stepping around her easily. "What's up babe?" he says to Santana, all beach bum eloquence. "The name's Puck and you are?"

"Not interested," Santana deadpans and Brittany's brows shoot up in surprised amusement.

"Whatever," Puck shrugs it off, facing Brittany again and throwing a heavy arm over her shoulders. "Whaddya say you and me go mono a mono. I've got a match tomorrow and you know," he lowers his voice, "You were always my lucky charm."

Santana, growing uncomfortable with the situation starts toward the empty bleachers, ready to leave.

"Santana, wait," Brittany says, breaking free from Puck and catching up to the retreating woman. "Let me get rid of him and then we can-"

"It's cool," Santana says with a shrug. "I should probably check back in with Kurt anyway."

"Are you sure?" Brittany asks, doubtful because Santana won't quite meet her eye.

"Yeah," Santana nods. "I'll see you around."

"Okay," Brittany mumbles, ducking down a little so that she does catch a glimpse at those dark eyes. "Thanks for coming, Santana. It really meant a lot."

Santana manages a small smile. "Anytime."

"_B_," Puck calls out loudly, "Come. On."

"I'll see you," Santana finally says, swiftly walking away before Brittany can say anything else.

***o*O*o***

"Why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not," Santana refutes, though the edge with which she says that proves otherwise.

"Then why can't you sit down?" Kurt almost yells, darting from his bed and grabbing her by the shoulders to still her.

The pacing is making him dizzy.

He pulls her into his body, bringing them both down onto the hotel bed, both of them in their pajamas. "Now, tell Uncle Kurt what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Santana mumbles, picking at the lint on her sleep shorts until the chin Kurt's pressing into her shoulder makes her grunt in annoyance. "Ugh, fine. We were – Brittany and I – we were goofing around on the beach and she was gonna kiss me-"

"What?" Kurt squeals, grinning madly. "And you didn't open with this information? What kind of bestie are you? Besties kiss and tell."

"That's the thing though, she didn't kiss me," Santana frowns, remembering, "because her boyfriend showed up," she adds, darkly.

Kurt gasps, "She's got a boyfriend?"

"An ex-boyfriend," Santana shrugs. "Whatever."

"Oh, well, so what's the problem?"

"Uh, she's obviously not into girls Kurt."

Kurt snorts before he realizes Santana's being deadly serious. "Oh, sweetie, your gaydar needs a tune-up."

Santana snaps, turning to frown at him. "What?"

"She's bisexual, hon. As in she likes girls and boys," Kurt explains, smoothing out her frown lines gently. "I thought you knew that."

"Does this look like a face that's in the know?" Santana asks him, her shocked expression exaggerated for demonstration purposes.

"Nah, that looks like the face of someone who's had one too many White Castle sliders, but I digress," Kurt states primly, poking at her still pouting lip. "Why are you still all Mopez Lopez?"

"Because the guy, Puck or whatever, implied that they still got down from time to time."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Maybe he didn't mean it like that."

"Hey B!" Santana imitates, lowering her voice and making the gnarly sign with her hang, "I thought we were banging tonight."

Kurt's face falls, "Crap."

"Yeah."

Before Kurt can offer any words of encouragement or consolation, their door sounds with a rapid knock and he shares a look of confusion with Santana before scooting off of the bed.

"Um," Kurt asks through the door, "Who is it?"

"It's Brittany S. Pierce," Brittany calls back sweetly.

"Oh my God," Santana gasps, her eyes widening. Not because Brittany's there – although that is rather surprising – but she's wearing pajamas and her glasses and her hair's a mess, propped perilously on top of her head.

"Is Santana there? I mean, I know she's there because you guys' friend? The squeaky one? She totally led me here and I think she threatened me actually. Something about a lifetime ban from Pixie stix. Anyway, can we talk? Santana and I, I mean. Nothing against you Kurt, but I don't think I'm packing the right equipment for you if you know what I mean-"

"Brittany," Kurt says, pulling the door open and ushering the blonde in before she can continue her awkward rambling. "Do come in. Santana and I were just talking about you."

Brittany grins, her eyes lighting up as they fall on Santana's. "You've been talking about me?"

Santana cocks an eyebrow. "And your boyfriend."

Brittany groans and Kurt takes that as his cue to leave. "Puck's not my boyfriend. He's not even my friend, friend. We used to date, hook up or whatever but then I…got smart. I…I didn't want just somebody to make sexy times with and then not talk to them again for a month. I deserved better than that and I knew there was no way Puck was going to give me more than that. I mean, hello Santana, he flirted with you right in front of me."

"He did, didn't he?" Santana says, folding her arms across her chest as she shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, feeling a lot of the fight go out of her. "I guess I just-"

"Overreacted," Brittany interrupts with a small smile trying to catch Santana's eye as she steps closer to her. "It's cool. Truth be told, I'd have probably reacted the same way if our roles were reversed. You're really cute, Santana. Even if right now you are wearing pajamas with little lance-a-lots on them."

Santana looks down at her attire, mortified all over again, but before she has a chance to retreat, Brittany's already got her in a vice-grip, her arms locked around Santana's back. "You don't need to worry about Puck, okay?" the blonde whispers, her face so close to Santana's that their noses bump together. "There's only one sucky beach volleyball player I'm interested in."

***o*O*o***

Brittany scoots up really far in her seat, glad that they've secured a spot a lot closer to the action than the last time.

They're waiting for Santana's gold medal match to start and by they she means _they_ – the whole lot of them. She's surrounded by what's easily the largest contingent of American Olympic athletes to attend one final in these Olympics thus far. There are members of the men and women's soccer teams, the men's gymnastics team, the men and women's swim team as well as herself, Quinn, Kurt, and Sugar.

Of course, she and Quinn are the only ones wearing gold medals around their necks…for now.

"How's it feel?" Sam asks in wonder, weighing Quinn's medal on his palm.

"I ain't gonna lie. When they put it around your neck it's kind of heavy but then the anthem plays and it's just…you feel weightless."

"You guys'll have one soon enough," Kurt tells Blaine, smoothing down his eyebrows. "There's always the individual events."

"Okay. Everybody shut up," Brittany shouts out suddenly, eyes glued to the piste.

Heh, she totally knows that now.

Santana goes through her progression, but the set of her shoulders is much different from the way it was when Brittany'd last seen her compete.

She looked…tight.

This became even more evident as the bout finally started, as Santana started immediately on the defensive, her Spanish opponent landing a series of hits and forcing Santana to step on the rear line.

"Oh no," Kurt gasps, hand covering his mouth.

"What?" Brittany asks.

"She's…she's bombing. Like, this is the equivalent of…," he turns to Blaine, "Quick, give me a bad volleyball analogy."

"Dropping a set?"

"Yes, that."

"Well, can't you like call time-out or something?"

"It doesn't work like that," Kurt says, wincing as Santana loses another point.

At the end of the first round, Santana's only landed one hit to four and Brittany's had enough, jumping out of her seat and clamoring down the bleachers until she gets all the way down to the floor.

"What is she doing?" Kurt hisses as Quinn whispers out for her friend.

"Chill Hummel. She's helping her girl get her groove back," Sugar says, sitting back comfortably in her seat. "And order is restored."

***o*O*o***

Santana jumps when she hears her name being hissed out and she whips her head around so fast, the mask sitting atop it slides down backwards.

"Brittany?" she hisses back as she pushes the mask back up, staring at the furious looking blonde being held back – rather aggressively held back she notes with a frown – by two very buff security guards. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm just hanging out," Brittany says sarcastically. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm watching you stink up the place worse than I did the other day."

"Okay, um, not really helping."

"Santana, you're better than her," Brittany says, still struggling with the guys. "You know you are. So why don't you take up your sword, slay the dragon, so you can rescue your princess and give me my kiss damn it!" Brittany says with a sparkling smile, even while she's being accidentally groped by security personnel.

And if that's not enough of a motivator, Santana doesn't know what is.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Santana calls out with a grin of her own.

***o*O*o***

Two rounds and eleven consecutive points later and the prolonged wait in between end of bout and awards ceremony it's all over and Santana's standing alone atop the highest platform as _The Star-Spangled Banner_ plays over the auditorium's speaker system.

And Kurt's crying and Sugar's pushing her out onto the floor again and Brittany's greeted by security again, only this time with much less resistance and she's waiting for Santana on the pitch, the woman's eyes never leaving her own as she makes her way down to start on her victory lap.

"You did-" Brittany starts to say but can't finish because her mouth seems to be preoccupied currently with the lips suddenly connected to hers, their medals clinking together as Santana winds her arms around Brittany's neck.

Brittany's hands settle against Santana's hips, pulling her close as the kiss deepens and everything else falls away: all the cheers and the lights and everything until it's just Brittany kissing Santana.

Brittany's never felt more like a winner.

***o*O*o***

_**The End**_

_Wait, there's supposed to be some Olympic sex in here._

_But where should they – oh, I know._

"C'mon Santana," Brittany yells, skimming her arms over the top of the water. "It's not even that cold."

Santana shakes her head, still wearing her tank and shorts as she stands on the beach. "Tell that to the goosebumps on my legs."

"I'll come out and drag you in," Brittany warns, her skin almost porcelain in the moonlight and Santana sighs, wanting nothing more than to go to her.

"But you're naked."

Brittany nods and Santana can make out her devilish little grin from here. "No shame."

Santana laughs before inching her fingers down to the hem of her tanktop, peeling the material off slowly. She can sense Brittany's eyes on her body and as soon as the yellow top floats onto the surface of the sand, she sees Brittany swallow.

"Almost," Brittany whispers, but it sounds louder than anything she's ever heard, and Brittany's a good ten feet or so away.

Santana shimmies out of her shorts before quickly slipping out of her underwear and dashing into the water before she can change her mind.

"Come here," Brittany says, holding out her arms as Santana shivers. "Come to me."

Santana's toes dig into the ocean floor to find purchase, the water just at neck level as she finally reaches Brittany, the other woman pulling her closer the instant she can reach her.

"We'll keep each other warm," Brittany says and Santana's stomach clenches as she feels their breasts press up against one another.

Brittany's hands smooth over the skin of her back, settling just over the curve of her ass and even in this frigid water Santana can feel her body temperature rise.

Brittany kisses her then, soft pecking kisses that vary in angle and pressure until they both crave more, Santana bringing her own hands up to tangle into Brittany's wet hair and pulling her closer, feeling Brittany smile against her kiss.

The kisses grow wetter, deeper, tongues probing and caressing and teeth nipping and tugging until the gentle sounds of the night ocean waves are drowned out by their heavy breaths.

Brittany walks them backwards, toward the shore, until the water's only lapping around their knees and Santana gasps when Brittany settles them down against the sand, pulling Santana onto her lap without ever really disconnecting their lips.

"I want to touch you," Brittany says, her fingers twitching against Santana's sides. "Let me touch you."

Santana groans into Brittany's mouth, using her left hand to grab Brittany's right before she pulls back to look at her, their eyes locking for a moment.

Slowly, Santana guides Brittany's hand across her hip and over her belly and lower still until there's a much different wetness coating her fingers.

Brittany's eyes flutter closed the moment she touches Santana there, her other hand sliding from Santana's hip to Santana's breast as Santana's hips start working against her fingers.

It's a slow rhythm they find, rocking against one another like the subtle to and fro of the night waves and when Santana breaks gasping out Brittany's name, reverently, wonderfully under Brittany's gentle coaxing, Brittany thinks it's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

***o*O*o***

"You think we scared all the fishies away?" Brittany asks absently, her fingers combing gently through Santana's hair.

Santana sighs out against Brittany's chest, her fingers still tracing shapes along Brittany's skin. They're still lying on the beach, this time just along the shore so that the water just skims at their legs when it rushes upon the shore as they settle in the afterglow. It's gotten darker, but Santana feels like she can still see everything.

"I don't think there were very many fishies to begin with, Brittany," she says, sounding drowsy.

"Hmm," Brittany hums, her hands working their way lower again, "Maybe you scared them away with all your moaning."

Santana chuckles as she reaches behind her, grabbing Brittany's expeditious hand before she gets too carried away again. She smirks down at the blonde as she maneuvers both of the other woman's hands until their stretched up above her head.

She kisses Brittany slowly, slipping her thigh between Brittany's legs until Brittany's unable to remain quiet, swallowing her deep moans. "I think," Santana says as she pulls away, smiling at the way Brittany tries to follow, "I think that might have been you."

She quirks an eyebrow as she leans down toward Brittany's breasts and Brittany's chest heaves as Santana trails lower and lower and lower still until Brittany's almost quivering with anticipation.

"What's that thing you taught me?" Santana teases, a precarious glint flashing in her dark eyes as she hovers right where Brittany wants her most. "Oh yeah," she smiles as she remembers, looking up at the other woman almost playfully.

"My serve."


	38. Not Guilty

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Wow, apologies to the infinite power. I totally didn't intend to stay away from this so long. But, not gonna lie, motivation is kind of lacking. Especially since I no longer actually _watch _Glee – I kind of have to in order to still write for these characters realistically. Anyway, I'm still sorry for the incredibly long absence and I would like to swear to you that it won't happen again but I can't know that for sure so… But I do want to thank you guys for sticking it out with me, reading and reviewing and all that jazz. Especially those of you who were bold enough to tell me to get off my ass and write damn it. Those helped more than I'd care to admit. I especially want to send a thank you to my interim beta and my permanent one (you know who you are) because they both helped me with this particular update. Alright, I'm off guys. Thanks again! Happy Thursday!

**Author's Note #2, Trigger Warning:** Character death, detailed violence.

* * *

><p>Brittany stares at the flashing lights, choosing to ignore the faces of the curious neighbors, choosing to ignore the faces of the judging policemen and women.<p>

She just sits in the back of the cruiser, watching the red and blue taint their quiet neighborhood as it greets the dawn of a new day.

***o*O*o***

"Nice day, wouldn't you say, Miss Lopez?" Mike says with a wry smile and Santana returns it, eyes narrowed.

"Absolutely fuckin' perfect," she snarks back, just as a peal of thunder shakes the jailhouse windows.

She sets her trusty coffee mug – filled to the brim with double-shot espresso, no cream, no sugar – down on the counter as Mike presents her with the visitor's log.

"Who're you in to see, today, 'tana?" the man asks, flipping over the page on the first clipboard once she's signed.

"Oh, nobody special," Santana laments absently, scribbling away. "Just making the rounds. You know you boys can't get enough of me."

"Too true," Mike says, setting the papers aside and pressing the button under the desk to buzz her in to the facility. "You work too hard, Miss Santana."

Santana grins, taking three steps forward before spinning around, finger pointed at the man she'd just been talking to.

"That's what she said," she and Mike say in unison, cracking one another up in the process.

"You two are such idiots, I swear," Santana hears coming from just to the left of her and she chuckles good-naturedly, turning to her friend.

"Aww, come on T," Santana says, nudging the woman on the shoulder. "No need to be so jelly. You're still my favorite Asian."

T – the woman currently rolling her eyes at Santana like there's no tomorrow – is Tina Cohen-Chang, Santana's very close friend and one of the many she has that has some ties to the legal and justice system. But their friendship goes back much further than their professional lives – to a time when Santana was struggling with her sexuality and Tina was struggling with the disappointment her parents would feel when she'd inform them of her law enforcement aspirations.

"Why do I continue to put up with you?" Tina asks as Santana takes another super chug of her coffee.

"Because I'm awesome and look hot," Santana deadpans and Tina stares blankly at her, not amused. "…and because I'm the best goddamn prosecuting attorney in the district," she adds, smugly.

"Finally," Tina says in exasperation, "the seriousness returns. What; did you get laid last night or something?"

"You told me all sexy time talk was disallowed with you because of my inability to determine what is and what is not an overshare," Santana rattles off as they wait for the elevator, "But if you're asking-"

"I'm not," Tina stops that conversation before it starts, climbing aboard the lift and pressing the doors open button until Santana clamors inside, her smirk set until the doors slide closed in front of them.

"Okay, so what's the what on this suspect?" Santana asks, turning toward Tina as soon as they're away from prying eyes. "And why so hush-hush over the phone?"

"Cap's on a mission with this one," Tina rushes out, her voice hushed as she hands Santana the case file. "I can't blame her though because everyone's on her ass about it. Still, I think we're jumping the gun."

"It says here that the suspect confessed," Santana says, reading over the info quickly.

"I know," Tina says.

"And that, when the police arrived, the suspect was still holding the bloodied murder weapon…"

"I've read the case file, Santana. I know that," Tina grumbles.

Santana stares at her, confused. "Okay, well, I'm not sure what you need my help for. This seems like a pretty open and shut case, T. I'm used to you calling on me when there's a little more difficulty involved. You know, missing body, shit-ton of blood, and an alibi that can't be broken type of shit. Now," Santana continues with a shrug, "I'm more than happy to pad my stats with this if you want, but I'm just saying, you don't really need _me_."

The elevator dings and Tina smiles at Santana, a wistful smile. "You got it all wrong, Santana. I don't need because the suspect's guilty," Tina informs her, leading her down the small corridor to the familiar interrogation rooms and Santana frowns, not understanding as she looks at Tina with questioning eyes.

"I need _you_ because she's not."

***o*O*o***

When Santana first meets Brittany the experience is not at all what she expects.

Going by the case notes – the frenzied stab wounds and copious amounts of blood, the fact that this person murdered their owns parents seemingly unprovoked, and the fact that said person committed these heinous murders all while in perfect view of their younger sibling – Santana expected to be greeted by a surly, large, head-hung individual, with gruff features and an even more gruff attitude.

Brittany S. Pierce is none of those things.

In fact, for someone who's been in solitary confinement for about a couple of weeks now she seems remarkably chipper.

Santana doesn't know exactly how to feel about that.

On the one hand, it's entirely demented.

This young woman is facing life in prison – or worse – and she's drumming her thumbs across the hard interrogation table and waving at that new corrections officer, Sam, like it's going out of style.

On the other hand, it's almost endearing that, even in the dregs of the New York prison system, this woman can still find time to be civil – kind, even.

The conflicting initial reactions wash over her quickly before Santana slips on a mask of professionalism, stepping into her role as assistant district attorney effortlessly.

"Miss Pierce," she greets curtly, accepting the chair Sam pulls out for her. In the corner of her eye, she can spy Tina leaning against the wall near the door, not watching but clearly listening intently. "I'm Assistant District Attorney Santana Lopez and I'll be taking your confession today."

Santana slides her briefcase atop the table, clicking it open and removing several folders and a memo pad the pulls her pen out of her suit breast pocket, removing the cap and setting the pen to page all before ever looking the accused woman in the eye. "Let's try to make this quick shall we?" she finally says, preparing to write, "Now, on the evening in question-"

"Is that a Uniball?"

Santana blinks, her eyebrows furrowing, "Excuse me?"

"Your pen," Brittany says, gesturing to the item in Santana's hands with a slight nod of her head, "Is it a Uinball?"

"I…" Santana says, completely taken aback, "…I don't believe it is."

"That's too bad," Brittany murmurs ruefully. "Uniballs really write good. They're my favorite."

Santana, unable to think of anything else to say – which is saying a lot considering she finished top of her debate class at Columbia. "Well," she finally utters.

"Huh?" Brittany asks.

"They write well," she clarifies, then feels absurdly stupid for doing so. She clears her throat. "Anyway, are you ready to proceed?"

The woman across from her grows somber, her expression turning grim as she nods once definitively.

"Okay," Santana settles more firmly in her chair, "Please recount to me, in detail, the evening in question."

The blonde woman licks her lips, twists a little in her seat as though uncomfortable, but then her expression changes – or rather, Santana notes, her eyes do.

They stare unmoving at the oak table maintaining the distance between them, large and wide and stark blue.

"I did Dad first. In the living room," Brittany finally says, still unmoving save for her lips. "I figured it'd be easier to take care of Mom with him out of the way."

"And how, if you don't mind me asking, did you kill your father, Brittany?" Santana asks, remembering that detail was missing from Brittany's notes.

"I…" Brittany frowns momentarily, "…I don't remember." She looks up at Santana then. "I was just so angry. Maybe I blacked it out or something, you know?"

Santana's lip twitches down as she registers this. "Blind rage," she supplies.

"Exactly," Brittany agrees quickly. "I almost couldn't see where I was going I was so mad. I was just standing there over him but then Mom was there and she grabbed a knife," that vacant look returns to Brittany's face and Santana watches as she retreats into her mind again, eyes dancing back and forth as if Brittany's watching a movie. "And she was waving it around, trying to keep…me away. But I took it from her and then…I killed her too."

Santana has been watching raptly this entire time and as Brittany concludes her story, her eyes narrow. "Brittany?"

The woman across from her blinks, seemingly slipping back into the present. "Hmm?"

"What knife did she grab?"

"What?"

"The knife?" Santana continues. "You said she grabbed the knife? Which one was it? Can you recall?"

Brittany nods. "It was the big chopping knife," she says. "I know because the handle was melted a little from that time I left it too close to one of the stove burners."

"Are you sure?" Santana pries.

Brittany squints, trying to remember before nodding slowly, the more quickly, definitive. "Yes."

Santana makes a notation.

"One more question, Brittany," Santana says, keeping her tone even and professional, "If you were in the living room when your mother approached you, then how did you see her grab the knife?"

Brittany's face registers alarm and Santana just raises an eyebrow knowingly.

"I can only help you help yourself if you're honest with me, Miss Pierce," she says in a clipped tone, gathering her things. "The next time we speak that's what I expect. Guard," she calls and Sam jumps to attention to let her out of the room, Tina following closely behind.

"Well?" Tina prompts, following Santana to the elevators.

"She's definitely lying," Santana says, running the brief conversation over in her mind. "About what though, I can't be sure."

"Why is she lying though? She can't _want_ to go to jail for murder."

"Why do most people lie?" Santana asks rhetorically, climbing onto the lift when the doors slide open. "She's protecting someone."

"But who?" Tina questions, still standing in the hallway perplexed. "The little sister?"

"Don't know," Santana shrugs, pressing the button for the lobby, "But there's only one way to find out."

***o*O*o***

Santana's phone rang a total of three times during the short cab ride from the precinct to the Little Voices family center, but she ignored them all, already knowing what would await her on the other end of the line.

Still, her stomach clenches uneasily as she dashes up the stone steps of the relatively small building – the foreboding feeling only intensifying when she sees who's there to greet her.

"Oh, for the love of-"

"Nice to see you again, too, Santana," the smaller woman greets, arm full of folders and snarky smile on her face.

"Do _not_ tell me you're assigned to this girl, Berry," Santana groans.

She doesn't have enough coffee in her system for this.

"Afraid so, Santana," Rachel states primly, chuckling when Santana just moans out in anguish. "Oh, cheer up, Santana. There are surely worse people to spend your time with."

"Rachel, I've spent several hours sitting across from a man who consistently and vehemently told me he'd like to lick my back sweat," Santana recounts, shivering at the memory. "However, I think I'd prefer him over you, right now."

Rachel lets it go, not one to ever prolong their verbal back-and-forth's. Years of knowing each other – from high school to college to their professional, working lives – has proven that she'll never win anyway.

"If you're done being more dramatic than I, we can get this started," she says, opening the door to the facility's residency area.

Santana rolls her eyes but follows obediently, her heels clicking behind Rachel's.

They reach the door to the activity center and just when Rachel's about to go inside, she spins on Santana, looking up at her warily with an almost pensive expression on her face.

"What?" Santana asks, bristling.

"I don't know how to ask this delicately so I'm just going to be blunt about it: Can you not be an asshole when we get in here?"

Santana actually blinks in surprise. "You said ass," she whispers.

"I'm just saying, I know you're used to dealing with hardened criminals and she's just a little girl-"

"I know this," Santana interrupts, rolling her eyes.

"…whose parents are dead," Rachel continues as if Santana hadn't even spoken, "and whose sister is in jail for killing them," she finishes and the hard set of Santana's shoulders slumps a little.

"I know," she says again, softer this time. "I know how to talk to kids, Rachel." Then she smiles a little. "I used to be one, remember?"

"Yeah," Rachel smiles. "Try it like that. A little doofus might do you good."

Santana rolls her eyes again, never losing the smile. "Just open the door, Berry."

As soon as they enter, a small cheer erupts inside of the room and a group of children, all varying in shapes, sizes and ages, immediately surround them, tugging on Rachel and asking her a million questions.

"We're being attacked by the Lollipop Guild," she whispers frantically to Rachel. "Quick, speak to them in your language."

Rachel pinches her where the kids can't see for that one before explaining to them that she's got to handle a little business first before she can meet with them all and Santana breathes a quick sigh of relief when they all slump away dejectedly.

"Whew," she says, looking around the small area, "That was close. So which one is…" Santana trails off unexpectedly, no longer needing the answer to her unasked question.

It's obvious who Brittany's little sister is because she looks just _like_ her.

The same blue eyes, the same shimmery golden hair; the resemblance is uncanny.

"She's like a Brittany mini-me," Santana whispers, more aloud than to herself and Rachel frowns at her.

"Are you okay?" she asks, worriedly.

"I'm fine," Santana says, snapping out of her awe-filled trance. "That's her, right?" she asks, nodding in the girl's direction.

"Yes. Her name's–"

"Jamie, I know," Santana nods, feeling a tiny bit of nerves settle in her stomach for some reason. She swallows them down. "Okay. Let's do this," she says, sounding surer of the situation than she feels.

Who knows what this little girl will reveal.

Rachel starts the conversation.

"Hi Jamie," she says, looking down at the little girl who's seated quietly at the table, neatly coloring in what looks to be a scene from _Finding Nemo_.

Jamie looks up at her slowly, timidly. "Hi," she says, her voice so tiny and fragile, the air in the room almost breaks it.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Rachel goes on to say, pleased with the girl's response. "She's a friend of mine. Her name is Santana and she just wants to talk to you, okay?"

Jamie's eyes shift over to Santana and again Santana's taken aback by the resemblance. She manages a weak smile.

"Okay," Jamie says again, just as quiet.

Rachel nods for Santana to sit down, and Santana watches as Rachel goes to the other side of the table to sit – her watchful eyes still on the two of them.

Gradually, Santana eases down in the chair next to Jamie, watching the girl scribble in the fish scales of Dory, not really knowing where to start.

She can't very well say _so…your sister killed your parents; what's your take on that?_

And she can't mention anything about her suspicions about Brittany not being honest with police; Rachel, though well-intentioned, might very well coax the girl into providing false information during Santana's subsequent visits.

And she can't be held responsible for possibly contaminating the lone witness to the murder.

Her boss would have her ass roasted and fried…

…and possibly rolled up in corn husks and steamed.

Shit, Santana's a little hungry.

"She's my favorite," she finally says and Jamie stops coloring to look at her, confused.

"Who is?" she asks, curious.

"Dory," Santana supplies with a small shrug. "Just a little quirky and everyone thinks she's kind of dumb but she's not. She just sees the ocean a little different. And she's really wise, too. Don't you think?"

Jamie nods, following Santana's logic.

"Have you seen the movie?" Santana asks gently.

"It's my favorite," Jamie answers, her eyes lighting up just a little.

"Really?" Santana asks. "Mine too."

"I watch it all the time," Jamie continues excitedly, but then she sobers just as quickly, a frown marring her features. "Or I used to watch it all the time. With Nee-Nee."

"Who's Nee-Nee?" Santana asks before she can stop herself.

"Brittany," the little girl says with a sad smile. "That's what I call her and she calls me Jamster."

Santana, unprepared for the cuteness of it all, even amidst all the heartache, offers a wan smile. "I met your sister today," she says quietly, awaiting the youngster's reaction to this news.

And as expected, Jamie's eyes light up. "Did you?" Jamie asks, an edge of hope lacing the tone of her voice. "Did she say she was coming to get me?"

Santana frowns at that. Surely this kid must know her sister's in jail…and _why_.

"Why would you think she'd be coming to get you?" she asks, the darkest part of her thinking that perhaps Brittany has finagled some kind of jailhouse escape.

"She told me she was gonna," Jamie says brightly, still coloring. "She told me to be a good girl for the police officers and to not say anything to anybody…"Jamie trails off, realizing her mistake. "Oops."

"No, it's okay, sweetie," Santana says, desperate for the girl to continue, "What else did your sister say?"

Jamie's small hand grasps the crayon in her hand so hard Santana can hear it snap. "I think I hafta go to the bathroom," Jamie says suddenly, her lower lip pulled between her teeth.

"Jamie," Santana pleads, holding out another crayon in offering, "Please?"

"I really have to go," the young girl says before abruptly pushing away from the table and swiftly making her exit.

Santana sighs, watching her go, her suspicions growing by the second.

"Well," Rachel breathes, suddenly standing next to her again, "At least you weren't scary."

***o*O*o***

The thing about knowing that your ass is about to be chewed out is, even when you're expecting it, it's not any easier to tolerate.

So, even though Santana expects her boss to be salivating at the mouth with the prospect of ripping her to shreds verbally, the veracity of the words still takes her by surprise.

"It is not your job," District Attorney Sue Sylvester almost snarls, "to disprove people's guilt. You're the prosecutor. You're supposed to be making sure that people fry."

"But New York got rid of the death penalty in '04," Santana says stupidly and can do nothing but look on as Sue's rage factor ticks up another notch.

"Oh I'm sorry," Sue says, narrowing her eyes at the other woman, "Did I ask for a recantation of New York state legal history? Did I somehow, in my previous statements, seem like I needed any information from you? Did one of my statements – punctuated by periods – have a lilt at the end that seemed to require a response from you?"

There's a pause now but Santana doesn't know whether it's safe to answer or not.

"…no?" Santana says/asks.

Sue, apparently exhausted, just sighs wearily before flopping back down into her desk chair, massaging her temples. "Are you familiar with the word rhetorical Lopez?"

_Ouch_.

"Okay, look," Santana starts, finally finding her footing now that Sue's voice is not threatening to break the sound barrier, "I'm a good lawyer, okay? And part of being a good lawyer is making sure all your I's are dotted and your T's are crossed, and, if you'd reviewed the case notes, you'd see that there are plenty of holes in this case. Any defense attorney worth their mettle will have a field day."

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but didn't this chick _confess _to the murders? Repeatedly?"

They stare at one another for a moment.

"Oh," Santana says finally, "I can answer now?"

Sue smirks. "Smart ass."

"Yes, Brittany confessed to the murders but there are inconsistencies in her story. One moment she's standing over her dead father, the next, she's watching her mom pull the knife out of the kitchen drawer," Santana explains. "It's sketchy, Sue. Just let me get everything sorted before we proceed, okay? You don't want a Scottsboro drama on _your _hands."

Sue's lips twist back and forth in contemplation and Santana waits her out anxiously.

"You got a week, Lopez," Sue says at last. "One. Week."

Santana smirks, smug. "All I need."

***o*O*o***

_Okay, so maybe more than a week_, Santana thinks bitterly, staring at the files piled up on her desk.

Two days have passed since Sue gave her the green light, two days have passed and Jamie's gone mute, Brittany's not changing her story – in spite of the hazy details – and Santana's no closer to disproving or proving the woman's guilt.

Maybe both she and Tina have it completely wrong and this Brittany chick _did _do it…and the little sister's in on it, and they were going to use the insurance payout to buy a trip to Disney World or something and Santana really needs to stop watching _Discovery ID._

Her office phone rings and Santana's glad for the welcome distraction, almost smiling as she snaps the receiver up hastily.

"Santana Lopez speaking," she states by rote.

"Good, you're in," she hears Tina's voice say, the New York City wind cutting in and making the connection scratchy. "I'll be there in like, five minutes. There's something you need to see."

***o*O*o***

It takes Tina more like seven minutes, seven minutes in which Santana spends spinning all kinds of scenarios in her head, but then her friend is entering her office, flanked on one side by Detective Adams and on the other by a blonde woman roughly their age.

"You're not going to believe this," Tina says as soon as she comes inside, waving a file folder around in the air before almost throwing it down onto Santana's desk. "Check those out."

Santana looks up at her curiously as she opens the file folder, her eyes tracing over what look like test results before she glances up at Tina again, waiting for the punch line.

"What am I looking at?"

"For crying out loud," Tina murmurs, stepping over to Santana's side of the desk and pointing down at the paper. "These are the DNA results from all the biological material recovered from Mrs. Pierce's body," Tina explains. "Now, note: there are three columns here for three different strains of DNA. Now, the first two are immensely similar and they should be," she goes on, pointing at the two columns in turn. "This one is Mrs. Pierce and this one is Brittany. But, see the third?" Tina asks and Santana eyes the genetic markers graph a little more intensely than before.

"It's completely different," Santana almost whispers.

"Exactly," Tina smiles, patting her shoulder companionably. "There was someone else there. Someone who is decidedly _not_ related to this family."

"How definitive is this?" Santana asks, referring to the charts and that's when the blonde in the room speaks up.

"I'd say it's one hundred percent definitive, but empirical sciences are never that precise," she states, her eyes confident behind black square-rimmed glasses. "But, statistically speaking, there's about a 1 in 275 billion chance that that DNA strain belonged to anyone biologically-related to the Pierces."

"And who are you?" Santana asks when no formal introduction seems to be forthcoming.

"Oops, my bad," Tina speaks up. "This is Dr. Quinn Fabray; One of the best forensic scientists in the state."

"In the country actually," the woman, Quinn, speaks up again. "And before you ask, I'm only taking on this case as a favor to Adams here. We go way back."

Adams thumps his chest but doesn't smile. "True dat," he grunts.

"However you came to be in our service, we appreciate the help," Santana says, not wanting to rock the boat, especially not when she still has questions to ask. "So, what I'm gathering from all of this… data, is that someone else was there. This still doesn't mean Brittany wasn't the killer, right?"

"Not exactly. But the science does provide an alternative theory," Quinn says. "Look, I don't know who's been handling the criminalistics of this particular case, but they've got some things completely wrong and that's just with me skimming the notes. I'll have to run a full thorough examination before I can rule her in or out as a suspect. But, just one note of harmless conjecture: there are several defensive wounds on the victim, however, when the suspect was taken into custody, she showed no outward signs of physical damage. And the only biological evidence of the suspect's recovered from the victim's body was comprised primarily of prolactin, adrenocorticotropic hormone and leucine enkephalin."

Santana stares blankly at her, "Yeah, speak English doc."

"Tears. There were only tears."

***o*O*o***

Santana bends down to load the roller up with paint again and blows forth a breath to relieve some stress.

She's had enough of the damn Pierce case and its endless dead ends and forensic evidence that lead nowhere.

It's not that Santana doesn't think it's great that there's a definite other suspect out there now, but the proof of one, in spite of her deepest wishes, doesn't alone disprove Brittany's involvement.

And, Santana determines, that sucks donkey balls.

It's like really stupid and she knows it okay, but, she's kind of grown attached to the blonde potential double-murderer which is insane, insane, insane, but it doesn't make it any less true.

The other woman is just so damn genuine, like, all of the time and she's only ever nice to Santana in spite of, you know, Santana's officially (unofficially) trying to put her away.

It's so damn frustrating in a way she can't even explain, so that's why this Saturday afternoon finds her in the guest bedroom of her apartment, wearing overalls and a bandana as she applies a new coat of paint to the walls.

She's been meaning to do it for a while and with the need for a distraction – running in circles gets old pretty damn fast if you're not a gerbil or a dog – she decided she'd tackle the project head on.

Of course, some ideas sound a lot better than they actually are.

"God fucking damn," Santana grumbles, her arm muscles protesting immensely as she rolls the paint onto the walls.

Suckiest thing about painting?

Painting.

Don't get her wrong, Santana's not a woman to shy away from physical exertion – especially of the horizontal, sexual variety – but her arm feels like it's about to fall off.

Maybe she shouldn't have fought those elementary school nuns off so hard when they were trying to force her to write right-handed.

At least then she'd be ambidextrous enough to switch hands–

"Fuck me with a rainbow-colored feeldoe," Santana suddenly gasps, all of her movements ceasing.

She drops the roller on the floor, uncaring that it lands on her carpet instead of the tarp, as she scrambles to retrieve her car keys.

She needs to get to the jailhouse and fast.

***o*O*o***

"I don't know about this," Sam murmurs, nervously looking around as he fiddles with his set of key cards. "I could really get in trouble for doing this. Why don't you just sign in to the log and stuff?"

"I already told you," Santana says with a sigh, gesturing for him to hurry it up. "I don't have time for all of that bureaucratic bullshit. Plus, tipping her off to my visits has been counter-productive thus far. I might get somewhere if I catch her off-guard."

Sam finally manages to get the block door open and leads Santana quickly down the line to Brittany's cell where the inmate is currently doing sit-ups.

"On your feet, Pierce," Sam says quickly, unlocking her cell door.

"Oh, hi Santana," Brittany greets brightly, rising to her feet while panting slightly.

Santana's eyebrows raise but then she frowns when Sam produces a pair of handcuffs. "What are you doing with those?"

"Sorry, Britt," Sam says, sounding sincere, "Protocol."

"No worries," Brittany says with a smile, using her forearm to wipe her brow. Her jumpsuit pants hang low on her lips and Santana spies Brittany's shirt lying on the standard twin size cot.

Brittany's grey tank top is just a little sweaty along her middle and the darkened material outlines her abs, the muscles contracting just slightly as she rotates her wrists in the cuffs and Santana should probably stop staring.

She looks up and catches Brittany's eyes on her, the smile on Brittany's face a little less innocent than usual – well, maybe Santana's imagining that – but, at any rate, she feels her face warm up a little so in true Santana fashion, she snaps at Sam.

"Is that really necessary, Evans?" she barks, glaring at the guy.

"I'm already breaking a lot of rules, here, Santana," Sam says, sounding torn up about it. "Don't push it."

"It's no big deal, Santana," Brittany shrugs, settling back onto her cot as Sam goes to stand guard at the cell entrance. "I'm used to it."

Santana steps further into the cell, looking around at the cramped space and imagining how confining it must feel to _have_ to be here.

She's only been inside for a minute and she's already feeling claustrophobic.

Her eyes find Brittany again and the woman is looking up at her curiously, expectant.

"Uh, I guess you're wondering why I'm here," she starts, trying to select her words carefully.

"Not really," Brittany chirps. "I'm actually more interested in why you're wearing overalls."

Santana looks down at her attire and feels a little stupid for not changing into something a tad more professional than paint-stained denim overalls and – Santana's eyes widen as she snatches the bandana off of her head.

Brittany laughs at her reaction. "Don't be embarrassed," she quips, her eyes sparkling. "I think they're cute."

Santana's face grows warm again as she looks at Brittany, finding herself unable to look away.

Their eyes lock for long moments before she shakes herself out of the stupor, almost literally, and she finally sits down on Brittany's cot, her heir of professionalism returning.

"Never mind the overalls," Santana says, aligning her thoughts as she speaks. "I was painting at home and a thought suddenly struck me – well, several thoughts – but mostly just one. You see, Brittany, I'm left-handed."

Brittany just stares at her.

"You know who else is left-handed," Santana prompts, rhetorically.

But of course, "So was Charlemagne."

Santana's brows knit together. "Huh?"

"He was a Holy Roman emperor and also a leftie," Brittany explains in a casual tone. "So is Fifty Cent."

Santana chokes back a laugh. "What?"

"You know," Brittany looks at her like she's crazy, barely concealing her own smile. "G-g-g-g-g-g-unit!"

Santana can't keep it in this time, her giggles spilling forth against her better judgment. "Oh my God," she laughs, almost doubled over. "You're hilarious, Brittany."

Brittany preens a little, looking pleased but shy as she shrugs.

It takes a moment or two, but Santana finally calms down, her laughter dying out as she regains her train of thought. "Oh man," she sighs, wiping her eyes. "You should come with a warning."

"So should you," Brittany grins. "That smile's lethal."

That shuts Santana up rather quickly, her thoughts derailing once again and her eyes dart downward to Brittany's lips for a moment.

There's a rustle in the corner as Sam shifts awkwardly and when Santana looks over she sees him staring at the ceiling like he wasn't just watching them.

She clears her throat. "Well, that's good to know," Santana says, carrying on, "But I was referring to the person who killed your parents. According to our forensics expert, the killer had to be left-handed. Now, do you know who's not left-handed?" Santana asks, this time holding up her hand to keep Brittany from answering.

"You," she says, matter-of-factly, pointedly looking to Brittany's cuffed hands which are now fidgeting nervously.

"No…no I'm not," Brittany says, unconvincingly. "I'm ambiguous."

"You most definitely are not," Sam mutters under his breath and Santana cuts her eyes at him.

"I think the word you're searching for is ambidextrous and no, you're not," Santana says to her. "I've been watching you, Brittany. You're a rightie through and through. So you get what I'm driving at don't you?"

Brittany looks away, her eyes falling on any and everything else in the room as the cogs turn in her head.

Santana can practically see them spinning.

"Uh…uh…hey," Brittany finally says, her voice high with anxiety, "Is it true what they say about lefties being really good at sex?"

Santana doesn't even blink at that. "Don't try to change the subject, Brittany," she says, her voice and tone serious. "If you're right-handed and the person who killed your parents was left-handed then how could you have possibly been the killer?"

Brittany looks like she's been backed into a corner and for a second Santana feels bad, attacking the other woman so harshly, but then she remembers that it's for Brittany's own good and she presses on. "The answer's simple, Brittany," she says slowly, "_You_ didn't kill your parents."

"I…I-I," Brittany stutters.

"Look," Santana says softly, moving closer on the small bed. Brittany's already pressed herself far back against the wall and now starts to curl in on herself a little, "I know you're scared. I get that. And I can protect you, Brittany. I can. But you have to start trusting me, okay? I need you to tell me the truth."

Brittany just shakes her head, clamming up.

"What's it gonna take to get you to trust me?" Santana implores, somewhat desperately, her eyes locking with Brittany's wild ones.

"Hey!"

"Uh oh," Sam jumps to attention. "Uh, hiya Cap," he grins at his superior as she makes her way down the line.

"What the hell is going on here?" Captain Jones asks, Tina right on her heels. "I hope this ain't no interrogation because if it is, oh hell to the no."

"Uh…uh," Sam stutters stupidly and Santana rises, thinking quickly.

"Just a friendly chat, Captain Jones," Santana supplies, chancing a glance back at Brittany who's taken to looking at the floor.

Santana sighs.

"…nothing more," she states, dejectedly.

***o*O*o***

The rain slaps against her office window as Santana stares blankly at the pages and pages of notes.

Her scrawl, loopy and delicate, blends together in one gray mass as she tries to find the answers hidden within the text.

She tries to line up the facts in her mind, hoping that the truth will somehow make itself known.

Fact: Mr. and Mrs. Pierce were murdered in their own home.

Fact: Jamie Pierce witnessed the homicides.

Fact: There was another person present at the time the crimes were committed.

Fact: Brittany S. Pierce committed the murders (?).

Santana tries to envision the woman she's spoken to frequently in recent weeks wielding a knife, deranged look in her eyes as she buries it to the hilt into the woman who'd given birth to her.

She tries to envision Brittany – that woman with the ridiculously blue eyes – grunting with the exertion of smashing her own father about the head with a heavy lamp.

She tries to envision a blood-covered Brittany, ignoring her little sister's cries as she stabs her mother until the light gives in her eyes.

She tries and tries and tries, but she can never reconcile the crazy, faceless murderer with the woman who offered her a piece of _Juicy Fruit_ gum at their third ever meeting.

It's mind-boggling to say the least because Brittany's either a complete genius who's duping them all with aloof kindness so that they'll botch her investigation entirely or…

…_or she's completely innocent._

The rapping of knuckles against her open office door shakes her from her reverie and she looks up to find Sue standing there, a pensive look drawn upon her face.

"How's that case coming along?" Sue asks and surprisingly her tone if snark-free.

"Excuse me," Santana asks, unused to a genuine Sue – or at least not a genuine, insult-free, Sue.

"What; do you have churros stuffed in your ears?" Sue intones, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "The Pierce case, Sandbags? Made any lee-way?"

_Ah. There it is._

"We've determined that there was another person – a male – present at the crime scene."

Sue's eyebrows rise in interest. "Have you?"

"There's some DNA…blood," Santana nods. "Only we don't have a suspect to compare it to, so…"

"And Blondie's sticking to her story?"

"She won't budge. Even though I've caught her on _so _many things. The knife, the lack of details concerning her father's death, the fact that she has _no scratches on her person whatsoever _even though her mom clearly fought back at her attacker," Santana rambles off, frustrated. "It's like; I _know_ she didn't do it. She _knows_ she didn't do it. But she's still maintaining that she did to make. Me. Freaking. Crazy."

"Okay," Sue says, backing up a little. "First, put the pen down, Loca Lopez."

Santana looks down and sure enough she's gripping her pen with such voracity her hand is turning a little pale at the knuckles.

Also, she stabbed her notebook a few times.

"Sorry," she murmurs, embarrassed as she tucks her pen – a Uniball – away in her desk drawer.

"We're good," Sue says. "I get the frustration. But, look, maybe you're asking yourself the wrong questions. Maybe instead of trying to figure out why Brittany's lying about killing her parents ask yourself how she benefits from being guilty?"

Santana looks at Sue, mulling the question over for a few seconds until her eyes light up. "…or who," she gasps, jumping to her feet and almost jumping across her desk to hug Sue who stiffens dramatically at the contact. "Thank you so much, Sue."

"…if this goes on for another two seconds I'm suing you for sexual harassment."

Santana – smartly – promptly lets go.

***o*O*o***

It happens every time now.

Every time she comes to have a sit down with Brittany the other woman will offer her this beaming, breath-taking smile, and, well she probably shouldn't admit this, but Brittany is undeniably, unquestionably beautiful. Navy blue jumpsuit be damned because it does nothing to dull the stunning prettiness a that is Brittany S. Pierce.

She's the kind of beautiful all those poets in her high school English literature class were referencing all the time. The kind of beautiful that doesn't know she is – or maybe she does, Santana thinks as Brittany keeps her eyes on her the entire time.

Maybe she's entirely aware of how Santana's finding it harder and harder not so genuinely smile back at her these days, how the blonde – who already occupies enough of her waking thoughts – has worked herself into Santana's dreams at night.

"Hi," Brittany says brightly, folding her hands atop the table. "I didn't think we were going to have a talk today. I mean, you usually tell me and you didn't mention anything about it last time so I was surprised when they told me you were coming. Am I talking too much? I feel like I'm talking too much."

Brittany laughs at herself and – partially because of the lack of sunlight exposure – her blush is not difficult to miss as she brushes her hair back behind her ear, embarrassed.

"I didn't plan on coming today," Santana finally speaks, keeping her voice even and her smile hidden. "But there was someone else who just _had_ to see you."

Santana watches Brittany's reaction closely, watches her confusion morph into absolute terror and dread but then…

…then Brittany's sister shuffles inside the room, escorted by Sam and the terror and dread turn into pure elation.

"Jamster!" Brittany squeals, opening her arms to the little girl so readily that the guard in the corner of the room actually goes to restrain her before Santana's sharp eyes stop him where he stands.

"Nee-nee!" Jamie giggles, rushing up to her sister and falling into her embrace with her whole being.

It's a heart-warming scene, watching the two sisters hug each other like they're all they have left in the world – then Santana starts when she realizes the stark reality of that statement.

Brittany pulls back just far enough to look over the young girl. "What are you doing here? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?"

Jamie giggles at all of her sister's questions. "Relax, Nee-Nee. I'm fine and no one's hurt me. Everyone has been really nice. Well…" Jamie lowers her voice a little, "there's this lady at the place I'm staying at who likes to sing like all the time. And for no reason. She's like that man from the subway," she tells Brittany conspiratorially.

"Oh, and I'm here because she brought me," Jamie finishes, jerking a thumb back at Santana.

Brittany fixes her eyes on the lawyer and Santana swallows, offering a small smile. "Just thought that you two would like to talk."

The other woman keeps her eyes on Santana, even as Jamie nods excitedly. "Yeah. She's super nice too," Jamie gushes. "We got milkshakes on the way over and she likes _Finding Nemo _and Dory," the girl prattles, then leans in closer to Brittany's ear, whispering loudly. "Just like you, Nee-Nee," the girl says, her eyes sparkling as she fixes Brittany with a look that resembles the cat that ate the canary.

Brittany chuckles, rustling her sister's hair before the words sink in. "Wait, you two talked," she says quickly, her questioning eyes now focused entirely on the other girl. "Jamie, what did you say?"

"I didn't tell, Britt," Jamie says quickly, knowing exactly what her sister is asking.

Brittany's eyes nervously cut over to Santana. "Good. Remember what we promised?"

Jamie nods, holding up her pinky and Brittany takes it with her own, squeezing gently.

"And promises can't ever be broken," Brittany continues, mindful of the audience they have.

"What if I make a promise, Brittany," Santana says, stepping toward them just slightly.

Brittany's grip on Jamie tightens.

"What if I make a promise to you, Brittany?" Santana says again, her voice quieter this time. "What if I promise to keep Jamie safe? Then will you trust me enough to tell me the truth?"

Brittany swallows, her eyes blinking rapidly and Santana can tell that they're starting to glisten. "I…I already told you."

Santana shakes her head, taking another step. "I know what you're trying to do, Brittany. And I think you're incredibly brave for doing it. But you don't have to do it anymore. You don't have to carry it around with you anymore," she says, her voice even, her slow strides bringing her nearer to the sisters still.

"I…," Brittany stutters, her breaths becoming uneven as the first tears spill over onto her cheeks. "It was me. I did…I did-"

"You didn't," Santana insists, her tone still quiet. "You didn't. Your story doesn't match the facts. Your mom came away with the perpetrator's blood and skin under her fingernails. You didn't have a nick on you. Your father's attack lasted for several minutes and yet you can't recall a second of it. You can't remember where the knife was or how you got it. The science says your mother's attacker was left-handed and you're a righty. You don't even have a _reason_ for doing it, Brittany. Just say it. Say it wasn't you. Let me help you."

"You can't," Brittany whispers out desperately, her tears flowing freely now. "You can't. I have to do this."

Santana reaches out a hand so that it rests on Jamie's shoulder, her eyes boring into Brittany's. "I'll protect her, Brittany. I'll protect you both. I promise."

Her other hand reaches out then, fingers curled into a fist save for her pinky which she holds out prominently, patiently, awaiting Brittany's response.

Brittany's pinky hooking around her own gives Santana the greatest sense of relief she's ever had.

***o*O*o***

Tina sits across from Brittany as Mike readies the camera and Santana watches from behind the one-way mirror, Sue and Tina's police captain, Mercedes Jones, flanking her on either side.

She's nervous, and rightfully so – this is the first time Brittany's going to _actually _ tell them what happened – but she's also nervous because she's not sure if she'll be able to take it.

As practiced as she is with this whole business of crime and with as many criminals she's pressed for details, she's never been in a situation like this. Never been so connected to a suspect – well, victim now, she supposes – that she literally doesn't think she'll be able to hear Brittany's testimony without reacting in some way.

But she is above all else a professional, so she'll soldier through this endeavor in spite of how difficult it might be for her personally.

***o*O*o***

"Hi Brittany," Tina says with a small smile.

And Brittany smiles back uncertainly, her eyes trained on the blinking red light. "Good afternoon, Officer Cohen-Chang," she says.

Tina laughs and Mike chuckles, delighted. "No need to be so formal, Brittany. It's not an interview," she explains and that seems to put the other woman at ease.

"Okay," Brittany breathes out, her squared shoulders rounding as she relieves some of the tension out of them. "Okay. What do you want me to say?"

"Just tell us what happened," Tina says quietly.

Brittany swallows, her eyes already creasing at the edges. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you'd like," Tina answers. "Maybe you can start with what you were doing when…" she supplies helpfully.

"Okay," Brittany nods, swallowing thickly. "Okay, I can do that. I'd been back home from my shift at the waffle house for about an hour and Jamie was being a knuckle head and trying to avoid bedtime," Brittany starts, rolling her eyes with a little laugh, "Just like usual. Mom and Dad were in their bedroom and Jamie was in mine asking me a ton of questions…"

*Start Flashback*

"_Nee-Nee," Jamie says, wiggling her toes as Brittany paints them. "I thought we were gonna do different colors."_

"_We were gonna do different colors but then someone decided to get all giggle-crazy and spill a bottle of polish on my nightstand so one color it is. One bottle open at a time means less spills," Brittany reasons, blowing on Jamie's pinky toe to help the first coat dry, smiling when her sister giggles again._

"_Nee-Nee," Jamie starts in her inquisitive voice, "can I ask you something?"_

_Brittany laughs. "Can I stop you?"_

_Jamie shakes her head, her blonde braid flying. "Probably not."_

"_Just kidding, Jamster," Brittany says, readying the brush for another coat. "What did you wanna ask me?"_

"_How do you know if a boy likes you?" Jamie asks, seemingly not shy about the topic at all._

_Brittany – on the other hand – feels her face warm up. "Why are you asking me this?"_

"'_Cause you're my big sister and you're way older than me and you know about this stuff," Jamie rattles off assuredly._

"_Well in that case," Brittany laughs, then shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe they try to talk to you or maybe they pull your hair. Boys can be kind of weird about the whole 'liking people' thing."_

"_Huh," Jamie breathes out, clearly mulling Brittany's answer over. "I guess Scotty likes me then."_

"_Scotty," Brittany repeats, racking her brain. "Wait, Scotty Madden? Stacey's little brother?"_

"_Yeah," Jamie shrugs. "He follows me around all the time and is always 'hey Jamie, do you think this is cool?' Then he'll do something really weird and expect me to high-five him or something. I usually just smile at him until he goes away."_

_Brittany laughs out loud at that, nearly smearing the polish in the process. "Wait, don't you like him back?" Brittany asks, genuinely curious._

"_I think so," Jamie says, watching Brittany paint her middle toe. "I mean, how do you know if you like somebody?"_

_At this, Brittany sighs, sitting back on the bed. "It's…it's a whole lot of things Jamster. Like, you like spending time with them and you like the way they smile. You like when they do stupid and goofy things and you like making them laugh. You like everything about them."_

_She turns her head slightly, stares at the picture sitting atop her bedside table – the image captured in time reflecting a slightly younger Brittany and another young woman, clinging to each other tightly and laughing, not even mindful of the picture. "You even like it when they don't make you smile or laugh," she says in a much quieter voice. "You even like it when they make you cry because it's them."_

_Jamie shifts a little on the bed, lying down beside Brittany. "Nee-Nee?" she whispers._

"_Yeah," Brittany says, never taking her eyes off the picture._

"_If Scotty Madden makes me cry I'll knee him in the man-tonsils."_

_Brittany's in the middle of a laughing fit when she hears the yelling._

_Her dad's voice is muffled but loud as it travels throughout the apartment and it's not the only one she hears._

"_What's that?" Jamie asks and Brittany shushes her, sitting stock-still upright in bed as she strains to hear._

_There are more shouts then some grunts and Brittany's on her feet, ready to investigate. "Stay here," she whispers to Jamie, slipping out of bed and rushing over to her bedroom door. _

_She opens it quickly and steps out into the hallway before stopping suddenly when she hears a loud thud, the sound of glass-shattering coming just after._

"_Nee-Nee, what's that?" Jamie whispers, suddenly at her side and causing Brittany to have another fright._

"_Shut up," Brittany whispers back, quietly. "And I thought I told you to stay put."_

"_I was scared," Jamie whispers back, clinging to her sister's arm._

_Brittany blows out a slow breath to calm herself before taking a cautious step down the hall, towards the sounds still coming from the living room but before she can take another her mother grabs them both from behind, silencing them with her stern eyes and a finger to her lips._

_Wordlessly, she leads them to the kitchen, ushering them into the pantry cupboard quickly._

"_Stay here," her mother whispers to them frantically but in a tone that brooks no argument or response._

_Brittany can hear her father's voice more clearly now, the grunts and groans sounding desperate to her ears, and she holds Jamie closer to her inside the pantry._

_Brittany watches through the slats in the doors as her mother grabs a knife from the chopping block and heads toward the scuffle – someone, someone who knows a lot of swear words – is fighting with her father._

_Brittany clings to Jamie tightly, straining to hear anything but all she can hear is more thuds, crashes and bumps. Muted shouts of anguish and agony._

_She's about to step out of the shadows when suddenly her mom comes into view and the stranger – the stranger who's not so much a stranger to Brittany._

_Of course right now he looks nothing like she's used to – he reeks and his eyes are blown to oblivion – but the smirk on his face bears an uncanny resemblance to the smile he shoots her every day on her walk back from work._

_The man and her mother struggle for a bit and it's then that Brittany notices the knife, the light from the kitchen chandelier glinting off of its shiny silver surface._

_He forces her mother back into the kitchen and Brittany looks on helplessly as her mother fights hard, clawing and spitting like a cat cornered but she's no match for this man and he shoves her hard against their kitchen counter as he wrestles the knife from her grasp and in one swift motion – Brittany blinks and misses it – he buries the knife into her mother's chest to the hilt, pressing until the woman's body convulses and she slumps against the counter._

_Brittany and her sister watch in horror as he continues to stab the woman repeatedly and their mother holds on, delaying the inevitable._

_When he slits her throat, the blood spatter spurts across the room and Brittany's sister lets out a squeak before she can think to silence her, but Brittany's dropping a hand to the girl's mouth and ceasing her breathing – body going directly into preservation mode._

"_Who's there?" the man asks, looking around wildly._

_He's still got the knife in his hands, blood all over, and Brittany thinks she's never seen anything crazier._

"_I swear to fucking God I'll kill you if you don't come out right now!" he yells, slipping in the mess on the floor._

_He listens intently for another second or so – small eternities to Brittany – before the distant sound of sirens draws his attention and he starts freaking out all over again._

"_Fuck!" he curses, walking past their mom's lifeless body and inadvertently kicking her hand in the process._

_He leaves the kitchen but Brittany still doesn't trust herself to breathe quietly enough and she's shaking with the exertion of holding it in but then he's back, murmuring to himself._

"_You shoulda just gave me the money, old man," he grumbles, dropping the knife onto the vinyl tile. "None of this had t' happen."_

_He stumbles over to the sink, looking even more frantic and when he curses again suddenly, loudly, Brittany's sister cannot hold back her scared yelp. _

"_The fuck is that?!" the guy yells, clearly disturbed but the sirens are louder and the flashing red and blue lights are reflecting off their apartment walls._

_Help is close._

_Brittany knows this._

_She also knows there's a crazy man in her kitchen, inching closer and closer to the source of the sound and closer to the knife._

_She makes a snap decision._

_Brittany darts out of the pantry, shoving her sister aside and diving for the abandoned the knife, the blood on the handle making it difficult to grip but she manages, bracketing herself between the man – beside himself with a mixture of shock and rage – and her sister, the little girl clawing at her arm frantically to get Brittany to return to shelter._

"_This is bullshit! Fucking bullshit!" the man curses, trying to find an easy weapon, but their kitchen is set up weird and he'll never find the knives in time. "You should've stayed hidden little girl."_

_The sirens are nearly deafening now and now Brittany's living room is awash with red and blue, something the both realize at the same time._

"_Look, you little bitch," he snarls, diving at her, but she swings the blade wildly, almost catching him. _

"_Fuck!" he curses, wiping his nose with his shirt. "Look, if I hear you little bitches – either of you – running your mouths, I'll find you. I'll come back and find you and kill you both. And that's a fuckin' promise."_

*End Flashback*

***o*O*o***

_**Two Months Later**_

Santana readies her files as she hears her docket number being read aloud.

Next to her, her legal aides stand alert, facing the judge and looking every bit the ounce of professionalism she consistently demands.

And they should.

After all, this is just another day at the court house.

Another case.

She tries to ignore the voices in her head screaming at her otherwise.

But even that proves difficult when she catches Brittany's eye during a quick scan of the court room, the blonde woman looking solemn and fearful as she holds onto Jamie, even though she's surrounded by some of New York's finest.

"…people versus Fletcher J. Gordon. Two counts murder in the first degree."

The defense attorney straightens up his suit jacket lapel, the tacky gold rings on his fingers glistening. "Ryan Murphy for the defense, Your Honor."

The judge nods at him. "How does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty Your Honor," Mr. Murphy says smarmily, casting a dismissive glance in Santana's direction, "By reason of mental disease or defect."

Santana has to fight hard not to scoff at that defense and instead turns her full attention to the judge.

"Miss Lopez," the judge nods at her.

Santana readies herself to speak, prepared to demand remand if only to ensure the safety of Brittany and her sister when a voice from behind her interrupts the proceedings.

"Excuse me, Your Honor?" Brittany asks, timidly and Santana turns toward her wide-eyed.

Brittany plows on though. "May I…approach the bench?"

The judge looks completely confused, rightfully not even knowing who Brittany is. "Counsel, who is this?" the woman asks Santana, careful eyes regarding Brittany.

"Family member of the deceased, Your Honor," Santana supplies, trying to keep her voice even as she addresses the judge.

"Well, see to it that she remains silent or I'll have her removed from the court," the judge states matter-of-factly and Santana hurries to comply, her eyes pleading with Brittany but the blonde is having none of it, a determined look set in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Brittany says, shaking her head as she pulls out a crumpled sheet of legal pad, her eyes squinting at it as she stands. "But as the designated family representative I have certain rights and one of them is to see…" she squints harder, "…to see to it that the appointed counsel will be able to perform honorably and execute justice to the best of his, or in this case her, abilities, and I don't think that Santana will be able to do so."

Santana's jaw drops.

She's just completely flabbergasted.

The judge, too, looks perplexed as she rubs her temples a little. "Let me get this straight. Are you, the chosen family representative for the victims named in this crime, firing your appointed legal counsel, Assistant District Attorney Santana Lopez?"

Santana stares at Brittany long and hard but the blonde just shrugs.

"Yeah."

The defense attorney looks like a kid in the candy store – or someone who destroyed three ships in a single episode – as the judge scratches her head yet again.

"Very well," the woman says, shaking her head a little, "Court will reconvene in forty-eight hours and hopefully by then our…family representative will have secured alternative counsel."

She bangs the gavel and Santana jerks a little at the sound, her body going entirely rigid and she thinks her eye is twitching.

Sugar Motta, one of her legal aides, looks at her worriedly. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Take cover, Sugar," Rory Flannigan – the other legal aide – says in his thick Irish accent as he eyes Santana warily. "She's about to blow."

"Santana."

The sound of her voice makes Santana flinch again and she slowly turns toward Brittany who's rounded out of the solicitors section and is now approaching the prosecution's table cautiously. "Santana," Brittany says, "Don't be mad."

Santana looks at her. "I'm not mad," Santana says, voice an octave higher than normal.

"Oh, she's so lying," Sugar whispers to Rory.

"I'm not," Santana says, shaking her head and shrugging. "I'm not mad. I'm fucking livid," she almost growls out, her piercing gaze meeting Brittany head on. "Would you mind telling me what the hell you think you're doing, Brittany?"

Brittany tries to speak, "Santana-"

"I mean, firing me is crazy enough, but okay maybe somewhere in that cobweb constructed brain of yours it makes sense to do so. Maybe, somewhere in your head – possibly in the same place that jewel of a statement about 'dolphins being gay sharks' came from – you think that kicking the Assistant District Attorney off of a murder case seems like the right idea. But, even though I've busted my ass building a case, solving a crime that you were going to go to _jail_ for. Even though I've stood up to my boss and the chief of police to prove _your _innocence, even after I've done all of that, you have the _nerve_ to wait until the day of arraignment to spring _this_ on me," Santana says, her voice quiet but her words very clear as evidenced by the way Brittany's eyes keep getting wider and wider.

Santana laughs humorless, breathlessly. "I mean, Jesus Brittany. Can you tell me what you're thinking?"

Brittany bites her lip, looking down at the courtroom floor before nodding once, seemingly making up her mind about something.

The space between them vanishes in an instant and Santana doesn't even have time to react before Brittany's lips are on her own, her hands coming up to frame Santana's face firmly yet still gentle that Santana can register how soft they are.

She's still too stunned by this second sudden turn of events and still in the middle of processing everything when Brittany pulls away, her clear blue eyes affixed to Santana's as she offers her a sheepish smile.

"I was reading some of your law books when we were in your office that one time – you know, when I got you to try dill pickle and chocolate – and it said that that crazy man could file an appeal or ask for a musical if it ever came out that you and I had a thing," Brittany explains, her grin wry.

Santana, still floored, just licks her lips, trying to sort through the myriad of thoughts traveling through her mind like traffic through the Holland tunnel. "But we don't have a thing," is all she can think to say, dumbly.

And Brittany's smile turns bashful now, her eyes darting down to the floor again for a moment before looking up at Santana again, confident. "That's just it though," Brittany murmurs. "I kind of want us to have a thing."

Santana stands stock still as Brittany steps toward her, bracing for impact but this time Brittany only takes hold of her hands, her thumbs brushing the backs of Santana's wrists. "Can we?" Brittany asks, so, so sweetly.

_It's insane_; Santana can't help thinking in the back of her mind. _Absurd, ludicrous, completely bonkers_.

She's not supposed to be_ into_ a woman she was once supposed to be putting in jail for murder.

It's the kind of stuff she sees on ridiculous daytime talk shows.

But it's also exactly what she's been trying to deny these past months she realizes as her body finally relaxes.

Santana smiles, her own grip tightening on Brittany's hands.

"I think I'd like that."

***o*O*o***

_**One Year Later**_

"…when it comes to the charge of murder in the second degree, how do you find?"

The foreman stands firmly, his shoulders set and eyes resolute. "We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

From behind Santana, a woman yelps but she holds back the self-satisfying smile until the second and third verdict is read.

Both guilty, thank you very much.

The judge bangs her gavel and Santana congratulates her team before turning to the victim's family, shaking the tearful yet grateful woman's hand.

"Thank you, Ms. Lopez," the wife turned widow says, pumping her hand. "Thank you. You're an angel."

Santana takes it in stride, glad to have provided some closure, regardless of how bittersweet it all is.

Tina strides up to her, hands tucked into her pants pockets. "Another one bites the dust, heh?" Tina says, smirking a little. "Do you _ever _lose?"

"Um, no," Santana says, sliding her files back into her briefcase. "That's why I'm the best, bitch."

"Whatever and I suppose we coppers just sit around on our asses and do nothing?"

"That's _so_ not true," Santana says. "You're occasionally useful for the average cup of coffee."

"Ass," Tina laughs, rolling her eyes as they both move toward the courthouse's exit. "So…celebratory drinks on me?"

Santana takes a quick look around, the sun shining down on them brightly as she scans the area.

"Sorry T," she says with a smile, waving her off as she starts in another direction, "I've got an appointment to make."

Tina follows her line of sight and smirks. "You mean booty call."

"Don't be a hater," Santana calls out over her shoulder, jogging the last couple of feet before leaping up into Brittany's arms.

Brittany pulls back enough to drop a kiss onto her lips, not too deep but not exactly chaste either.

Santana kind of really likes those kisses.

"Hey," Brittany grins into the kiss.

"Hi," Santana breathes, hugging her tightly.

"Lemme guess," Brittany murmurs when she pulls back a little, "My super-sexy lawyer girlfriend is still undefeated."

"Another goose-egg in the loss column," Santana says smugly, fixing Brittany with a playful gaze. "So, you know what that means…"

Brittany nods, pulling her along to their waiting cab, rolling her eyes a little. "You're topping tonight."

Santana giggles. "Damn right," she nods.

"It's all good," Brittany smirks, holding open the door until Santana clamors inside. "As it turns out, it's totally true what they say about lefties."


	39. Rescue Me

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Hey guys. Good Morning. How's everybody doing out there? As promised, here's another update. Oh, and BIG NEWS, the movie campaign is a go! I've got the link posted on my profile page and at my tumblr since I can't post links here. They've only got a limited amount of time to reach our funding goal so if you all could spread the word around that'd be awesome. And, yes, those are actually the actresses they've cast. Thanks for reading guys and thanks for all the support.

* * *

><p>"Hey!"<p>

Santana rolls her eyes at the lot of them, taking her time walking in front of the television.

"Bunch of Neanderthals," she mutters, popping the tab on her soda can.

"It's the_ fourth_ quarter," Mike complains. "We don't strut in front of the TV when you're hypnotically gazing at Real Housewives of…something or another."

"Hey," Kurt snits from their kitchen area. "Kill yourself. I like that one too."

"Say it wit' ya' chest," Finn offers, randomly and everyone stares at him.

"I thought we were trading Kevin Hart quotes," he explains sheepishly.

The guys – Blaine and Mike – all return their attention to the game as Santana slides into a stool at the counter, just across from Kurt.

"That guy's an idiot," she comments wryly, rolling her eyes and picking at…whatever the hell it is Kurt's making.

"Dude, maybe you missed your calling," she says, sucking the dollop of white off of her finger, sneaking another taste before Kurt can bat her away. "This is really good."

"Unfortunately, this is just a hobby. I could never do it professionally," Kurt informs her, wielding the decorating knife with flair. "Nope, there's only one thing I was born to do."

"Here, here," Santana says, raising her can up a little. "Although, don't you find it kind of weird that you fight fires even though you flame brighter than one?"

Kurt presses his lips together. "Just for that, you're not getting any."

"Hey guys," Will says, buttoning up the top button on his crisp white uniform shirt, "Gotta favor to ask."

"Not it," Finn and Kurt say at the same time, leaving Blaine, Santana, and Mike to grumble in annoyance.

'Excellent," Will drawls with a smile. "Twelve-fifteen, you guys and don't be late. And Santana, try not to scare the little kiddies this time."

With that, Will heads back to his office, leaving the squad littered around the living quarters. "How come he said that?" Santana queries aloud, pushing herself to her feet. "I'm not scary."

"I'm pretty sure he's referring to the way you described – in detail – the effects of a thirty-sex hundred degree fire on human skin," Blaine answers helpfully, moving to retrieve his equipment.

"That was informative," Santana rebuts.

"I had nightmares," Finn supplies.

"You have nightmares about the Teletubbies," she fires back.

"She's got you there, bro," Mike says with a laugh, throwing his bag onto the truck.

"The little one creeps me out," Finn shrugs, crossing his arms, "Whatever."

Santana goes to say something else but Kurt taps her against the head gently. "Hush."

She quiets, scooting past Blaine as he makes his way to the kitchen area as well, moving towards Kurt.

She grabs her equipment bag but keeps her eyes on the pair, watching as Kurt lovingly tugs Blaine's coat up on his shoulders.

She watches still as they exchange quiet, loving words and she only looks away when they draw nearer still to kiss quickly.

She sighs deeply then, climbing into the fire engine's cab, wondering to herself if she'll ever be able to be that brave.

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

"…and that's how it's done," Mike finishes proudly, glancing around at the bright-eyed youngsters gazing back at them.

"Now," Santana beams, "Who wants to give it a try?"

The whole room's hands shoot up except for one girl in the corner, her head bowed even though she's clearly interested.

"How about you?" Santana asks her directly, smiling kindly. "What's your name?"

The little girl ducks her head down lower still, shy before mumbling, "Melanie."

"Well, come on, Melanie. Give it a try," Santana coaxes gently. "Don't be afraid."

Slowly, the girl pushes herself away from her desk, joining them in the front of the class where Blaine and Mike have spread out blue gym mats.

"Now, remember boys and girls," Blaine states loudly as Santana helps position the girl over the mats, "If your clothes ever catch fire, what are you supposed to do?"

"Stop! Drop! And Roll!" the kids all yell loudly while the girl Santana's selected performs the actions with expertise.

"Alright!" Santana cheers, helping her to her feet. "That was excellent stopping, dropping and rolling, Melanie! Wasn't it guys?"

"Yeah!" the class cheers in chorus and the cute, blonde teacher watches from the back of the classroom, charmed.

Santana's heart does a little flip-flop.

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

"So," the teacher asks Santana as they're both standing in the playground while the kids enjoy recess, "How did you first realize you wanted to be a firefighter?"

Santana swallows thickly, tries to stop herself from ogling the woman in front of her. "I don't think I had an actual realization," she answers with a small smile, "Just something I've always known."

The woman standing next to her grins, rocking back on her heels a little. "That's how I feel about teaching," she offers. "It's something I was meant to do."

Santana's eyes soften dramatically and she gathers all the courage she has in her being as she takes a deep breath and faces the woman finally, head on.

"So, um, look," she manages to stutter out, tamping down all the nervous energy she feels inside, "I was wondering…would you maybe want to…sometime…"

The blonde woman cocks her head to the side, squinting across at her through black square-framed glasses, her short, chin-length hair bouncing with the movement but before Santana can manage to form more bumbling words, a blonde gentleman joins them, casually slipping an arm around the pretty teacher.

"Hi Quinn," he whispers into her ear before quickly pressing a kiss to her temple. "Who's your friend?" he asks companionably and Santana feels like digging a hole and crawling into it and dying.

"This is Santana," Quinn supplies, leaning into him intimately. "She's with the fire department obviously. Santana, I'd like you to meet Mr. Evans," she laughs when he pinches her side lightly, "my fiancé."

"Call me Sam," the guy laughs and Santana smiles awkwardly before nodding politely and gesturing behind her.

"I should probably, uh," she starts, but they're already getting wrapped up in one another, barely paying her any attention, "…get the equipment."

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

Blaine jumps when the cab door opens suddenly and pockets his phone, watching with interest as Santana grumpily tosses her bag and fire coat onto the seat beside him.

She pulls her body up inside and plops down onto the seat, slamming the door closed behind her.

"Alright," Blaine sighs, giving her a sympathetic look, "I'm just going to ask. What's wrong?"

Santana pouts, then kicks at the floor mat. "My gaydar sucks."

Blaine can't help laughing. "What?"

Santana points out the window at the two canoodling teachers, still visible from the parked fire engine. "Hottie teacher's a breeder."

"Hmm," Blaine assess, giving the woman a proper once over, "I don't know. She doesn't really ping hardcore. But she pings. I love that color on her though."

Santana sits up suddenly. "How do you and Kurt do it? It's not like Lima's an accepting town? And it's not like high school where you have to be protected by everyone because you're technically still a kid. I mean, people suck Blaine."

Blaine nods. "They do. From time to time. But sometimes people surprise you. Besides, I've tried living that life; that one where I was always holding back this huge part of myself to make other people comfortable. It was so draining to always watch what I was doing. Making sure that a hand wave didn't come across inappropriately, or that I didn't smile too hard at the gentleman that hands me my dry cleaning. In the end, it's just a whole lot easier to be yourself. I mean, I came across as more weird before. Always looking over my shoulder."

"That's hard to imagine," Santana murmurs demurely, "I mean, you're still pretty damn weird now."

Blaine raises an eyebrow at her and Santana cracks, finally laughing. "I kid, Blanderson," she smiles, poking at his cheek innocently. "You know you're my favorite gay guy."

Blaine laughs loudly, sliding over so that Mike can climb so they can go. "Don't let Kurt hear you say that."

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

Santana hands Blaine a stack of clean plates for the table while Kurt carries in a pitcher of water.

"Oh, Finn," Kurt calls, "Can you grab the rolls out of the oven?"

Finn pushes off the counter and grabs some oven mitts so he can retrieve the tray full of homemade dinner rolls.

"Yo Mikey," he calls, setting it onto the top of the stove. "Grab that bowl."

Mike drops the handful of cutlery onto the table loudly, grabbing the woven basket with a playful grin.

"You two had better not," Kurt cautions, knowing what's about to happen, but his warning falls on deaf ears as Finn tosses the still warm rolls one by one at Mike, who catches them with ease.

Even with Kurt screeching like a Colombian Screech Owl.

_Discovery Channel_.

"Chill dude," Mike chuckles, setting the basket back down as Blaine finalizes the setting of the table. "I caught 'em all."

"Where's Chief?" Santana asks when everyone starts to take their seats and just then Will comes into the room, catching the roll Finn errantly throws, still expecting Mike to be there.

"Chief is here," Will says briskly, sliding into his seat at the head of the table. "Let's eat."

"Excuse me," Kurt says loudly, when they all dive at the meal he's prepared. "Aren't we forgetting something?" he prompts, clasping his hands together.

And they all sit back in their seats, mimicking his actions.

"Blaine," Kurt says, touching him lightly on the elbow. "Would you like to say grace?"

Blaine bites his lip worriedly but Santana elbows him in the side and he sighs grandly.

"Lord may we eat all we are able, until our stomachs touch the table," Blaine says, and everybody cracks up, howling and pounding on the table in amusement.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Blaine says to a shocked Kurt, "A bet's a bet."

"Okay," Santana announces, slapping her hands together. "Let's eat."

But the minute she picks up her fork, the speaker crackles to life.

"Squad number two-eight-seven, we have a 1 red located on thirty-five, fourteen Edgewater Lane. F-I-B," the dispatcher says.

"That's a copy dispatch," Mike says into his receiver, already sprung into action like everyone else around him, food dismissed, "We're on our way."

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

"It's about time!" a woman shrieks as the approach the house.

Santana leans into Blaine. "How are we hearing her over the siren?"

Mike clamors out of the cabin, Kurt and Blaine on his heels and Santana and Finn start toward the house to assess the situation.

"Ma'am, do you live here?" Finn asks the frantic brunette, still standing in the middle of the street.

"I think the soot all over her clothes confirms that Finn," Santana snarks, pulling on her gloves as Blaine makes quick work of connecting to the fire hydrant while Mike and Kurt man the hose. "Is there anyone else in the residence?"

"Yes," the woman says, pointing toward the blaze. "My roommate's inside. And her cat. But I wouldn't mind it too much if you guys didn't find the cat."

Finn's already walking toward the building, now that some of the flames have been tamped and Santana goes to join him but the woman grabs her arm.

"Her name is Brittany," she says. "She might not come right away because masks kind of freak her out. But, please, _please _save her? She's my best friend."

"I will, Miss," Santana nods, her hard hat falling over her eyes just a little. She rights it and then hustles off to trail Finn, ducking into the barely discernible doorway.

"Finn!" she yells into the near-black surrounding her. "Finn, call out!"

"Over here!" he yells, waving the beam of his flashlight to get her attention.

She's already sweating – must be a kitchen fire – but she manages to locate him finally.

"Check the bedroom and dining area down here," Finn yells. "It looks like there's a basement!"

"I'll check that and you look around upstairs!" Santana nods. "Her name is Brittany!"

Finn nods and then turns to leave, carefully maneuvering his lanky frame through the distressed home.

Santana makes it to the staircase and looks up, sees the smoke settled at the top and frowns, knowing that smoke is almost more deadly a killer than fire.

"Brittany!" she calls still as she hustles down the stairs quickly. "Brittany!" she calls when she reaches the tiled hallway. "If you can hear me, call out!"

There's a horrible crack that sounds then and Santana barely has time to jump back before two of the ceiling's rafters come flying down, nearly blocking one small room of to itself – probably a storage closet.

Santana curses, eyeing the ceiling warily. The amount of air seeping inside the hall now multiplies because the flames get bigger, but just as she's about to turn her back on the closet and try to find the remaining rooms, she notices the softest glow coming from underneath the door.

"Brittany!" she calls again, moving toward the door and listening closely she finally hears it, a notable "In here!" strained thought it is.

Not hesitating for a second, Santana grabs the aflame rafter pinning the door closed but she can only move it as much as to let her body past, and crawling under the second until she's standing in front of the door.

"Brittany, stand clear of the door," Santana yells, limbering up. "I'm coming in."

With a strong shoulder charge, the lock gives and Santana falls inside the smoke filled room, her eyes wide behind her mask in the darkness.

"Brittany!" she yells and a flash of movement catches her eye to the left and she sees her, lying there, nearly about to pass out from oxygen deprivation.

Santana goes over and grabs for her, pulling Brittany's prone body across her shoulders so that she can carry her out but when she goes toward the open door, there's another cracking sound and the roof that was barely holding on, caves and rafters and debris officially block them in.

The noise jostles Brittany who jerks from Santana's grip, almost falling but Santana manages to set her down and kick the door close, hoping the piece of wood will maintain until the guys can get to them.

Brittany, now more alert, starts coughing repeatedly and Santana goes over to her, kneeling down next to her in her heavy suit.

Up close and with time to look now, Santana realizes that this woman – Brittany – is pretty damn cute, especially with the Tweety Bird t-shirt she has on, but it's when Brittany finally pitches back her head and looks at her that Santana truly has a reaction.

"Can't…breathe," the young woman barely manages to get out, her voice strangled.

And Santana, still dumbfounded can only nod.

She kinda gets where Brittany is coming from.

"Need…air," the woman tries again, reaching for the mask still attached to Santana's face and that gets Santana to move again.

"Right," she mumbles out, feeling stupid as she undoes the straps. "Here you go," she says, holding the device securely over Brittany's mouth and the blonde breathes the fresh oxygen in greedily.

Santana peers around and realizes they're in small, mirrored room – one unfortunately devoid of any windows.

There's still a steady torrent of smoke pouring in from underneath the door, and acting on skills that have become more instinct than anything, Santana throws off her jacket and slides it in place along the door's base, slowing down the inflow.

Then she crawls over to the vent she can see in the floor and slides the diffuser closed.

Brittany says something behind her, but it's so weak and muffled from the mask that Santana can't hear.

"What?" Santana asks, sliding back across the floor to her.

Brittany goes to take the mask away but Santana shakes her head no.

"I should've had some gloves," Brittany repeats, holding up her free hand, her right and Santana notices then the blistered, burnt skin. "I tried to open the door."

"Shit," Santana curses, "I forgot to ask. Are you okay? Aside from the burns I mean. Did you hit your head on anything?"

"Not today," Brittany says cheerfully, then, "How come we haven't left yet?"

Santana coughs a bit but refuses the mask when Brittany offers it to her. "Waiting on our ride, is all."

"Does it normally take this long?" Brittany asks.

No, Santana thinks but she doesn't want to worry the pretty blonde. "We'll be fine," she says, staring at the door.

"What's your name?"

Santana blinks, her eyes burning from the smoke before she faces the other woman, gulping slightly.

"Santana."

Brittany's eyes spark, even in the dark Santana can see that, and she smiles. "That's a pretty name. Santana the firefighter," Brittany goes on to say, then laughs unexpectedly "I sound like an astronaut."

Santana finds herself unable to not smile. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

Brittany shakes her head, her hair brushing along her shoulders as she does so. "I think it's this stuff I'm breathing."

Santana shakes her head and coughs a couple more times when a loud thud sounds outside the door.

"Santana!" she can hear Blaine's voice say. "Santana, you in there?!"

"Yeah!" Santana shouts, jumping to her feet. "We're in here!" she says, rushing toward the door and kicking it once.

"Alright well, stand back!" Mike shouts as well. "We're coming in!"

Santana steps back and there are some more noises, loud grinding sounds and grunts as the boys work to unblock the door.

Embers and soot fall down from above as they work, catching Santana's attention and the minute she realizes what's about to happen it's too late.

She dives back across the floor, throwing her body over Brittany's before the roof finally falls in completely, rubble and debris cascading down her back.

"Hold on to me," she says to Brittany and the blonde nods, eyes wide beneath her.

Santana prays that nothing heavy falls atop them as the rafters crashing into the mirrored walls and showering them with small shards of glass.

"I have to tell you something," Brittany whispers urgently, her worried eyes pinched together. "I have to tell you because if I don't and I die tonight no one will have ever known and I need someone to know."

"We're not going to die," Santana says as calmly as she can manage but her heart thumping against her ribcage betrays her.

"Please?" Brittany begs, jumping when another crack sounds from another breaking rafter and Santana prays harder.

"Tell me," she says, still crouched over the other woman and Brittany surprises her by bringing her free hand to Santana's cheek and pulling her closer, close enough that Santana can make out the freckles on her face, even beneath the light layer of dust and soot.

Brittany's head turns, the mask still over her mouth but she pulls it away to whispers the words _I'm gay_ into Santana's ear.

Santana pulls back to look at the other woman, seeing her in an entirely new light and slowly a smile grows on her face, even amidst all this chaos and devastation.

"Well, you're not going to die, Brittany, so that was pretty unnecessary," she tells her, putting the mask back over the blonde's face. "But I'm honored you told me," she adds.

Brittany smiles at her and suddenly, it seems like Santana is falling, like the ground beneath her is floating away, ripped from existence.

It's almost surreal…but then she realizes the floor beneath her hands is starting to slant and Santana finds herself scrambling to find purchase. However, trying to get grip on mirrored walls while making sure Brittany stays within the safety of her embrace proves difficult and both her and Brittany go sliding down – though not far.

Somehow they land in flipped positions; Brittany atop Santana and Santana gulps now that she knows without a doubt Brittany's not wearing a bra.

"Are we in Narnia?" Brittany asks, peering around intently, though there's not much to see.

Just concrete slabs and solid earth below them.

Santana shakes her head slightly, holding in a cough. "I think it's a crawlspace."

"Oh," Brittany says, still holding the oxygen mask but not breathing into it anymore. "Narnia would've been cooler."

"Definitely," Santana agrees, shifting a little and it's only then that Brittany seems to realize she's on top of the other woman, her blue eyes – such a beautiful color blue, Santana notes – widening and even in the dark Santana can see her blush.

"I'm sorry," she mutters out, rushing to push away from Santana's body and hissing when the raw skin of her hand makes contact with the rough earth.

"Ow," Brittany hisses and Santana sits up quickly, slipping off her gloves to gently grab the injured hand.

"It's only a first-degree burn if it's even that severe," Santana murmurs, looking over the wound. "You'll heal up good and proper once we get you out of here."

"And if we don't…get out of here," Brittany prompts, her voice sounding small.

Santana looks up at her, her grip on Brittany's hand tightening carefully. "Don't think like that," she says. "My guys are gonna get us out."

"Yeah," Brittany nods, swallowing tightly, "But what if they don't?"

"SANTANA!"

"Mike," Santana says, giving Brittany a small smile. "Mike, what's going on?!"

"We're gonna have to find another way to get ya!" Mike yells, his voice booming down from above. "The roof caved in and we're kind of in a pinch too to get back out safely! How's the victim?!"

"She's-

"I'm fine!" Brittany yells over her, grinning at Santana.

"Excellent!" Mike yells, sounding like he's straining. "The fire's out it'll just be a little while 'til we get to you. So just, sit tight alright?!"

"Don't really have a choice Mike, now do I?!" Santana yells.

"Smart ass!" Mike calls back down, already sounding farther away.

Santana chuckles while still looking up above, her laughter falling off to a coughing fit and she's surprised yet again when Brittany's scoots closer and places the mask over Santana's face with her free-uninjured hand.

Santana shakes her head, and tries to pry the mask away but Brittany just smiles, pressing harder.

"Stop being so stubborn," she tells Santana quietly and Santana just sighs, letting her hands fall back down to her lap.

"Finally," Brittany laughs, rolling her eyes playfully and Santana narrows hers, still visible beneath the brim of her fire hat.

"Whatever," Santana says, rolling her eyes too and she's pretty sure Brittany's eyes crinkle as she smiles because Santana sounds like an astronaut as well.

But then Brittany's eyes soften and her wide, amused smile rounds out into something more sincere.

"Thank you," she says quietly and Santana feels her heart flutter when the fingers of Brittany's injured hand tickle against her crooked knee, gently.

Brittany could mean a plethora of things – from rescuing her, to giving her the oxygen, to finally taking the oxygen mask back – but Santana's pretty sure she knows what's she's receiving gratitude for.

"No," Santana finally say after a long quiet moment, "Thank you."

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

Santana's arguing with her nurse about how she _can make it to the washroom on her fuckin' own, thank you,_ when Blaine and company come in.

"Ha," Mike laughs, holding his hands out to everyone, "Fork it over everybody."

The guys all grumble, digging down into their uniform pants pockets before they slap five dollar bills onto Mike's palms.

"The hell?" Santana asks, watching them as they all file inside her half a room, and glaring at the nurse as he walks out.

"I bet them you'd be cursing when we came in," Mike supplies an answer to her query. "How are you holding up?"

"I'd be a lot better if they'd let me out of here," Santana whines, "Observation my ass."

"How come you're not wearing one of those half robes?" Finn asks, wondering why Santana is still in her dirtied uniform shirt and pants.

"They probably couldn't even beat Santana into one of those tacky things," Kurt laughs, taking a seat in one of the room's cushioned chairs.

"Seriously though," Santana says, picking at her shirt, "Did you guys come to kidnap me or…"

"Will's handling your paperwork and then she'll be a free woman," Blaine informs her, sitting down on the bed next to her as Mike swipes the television remote. "And we're here to see you, silly. Don't know if you know it or not but you were trapped in a _fire_."

"Finn also wanted to let that Brittany girl see her fat ass cat," Mike adds, trying to find Sportscenter.

Santana's breathing quickens a little. "You guys have seen Brittany?" she asks, trying her damnedest to keep her voice even.

"Yep," Finn says, rocking back on his heels a little as he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room – Santana'll kick him off the bed, he knows. "She's really pretty."

"And also pretty worried about you," Kurt adds, somewhat absently. "You should go see her before we leave."

She feels her heart start thudding against her ribcage.

She looks down at herself, her messy clothes, and frowns.

"Nah," she says, quietly. "I just wanna go home."

Kurt shrugs. "Suit yourself."

"Alright Miss Lopez," Will says, bursting into the room, "You're clear to go."

"Fuck yes," Santana says, jumping to her feet. "Last one down's gotta watch the dishes, bitches!"

"Did she forget that she _has_ to be brought out in a wheelchair?" Will asks and Mike rushes to the door just in time to see Santana shoulder check that guy nurse out of her way.

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

Santana feels stupid.

Like, crazy stupid.

Or crazy and stupid.

In either case, she definitely doesn't feel smart about what she's doing, that's for sure.

There are flowers in her left hand and a stuffed Tweety bird in the other and why she ever thought bringing a perfectly grown woman a stuffed toy is acceptable behavior is beyond her.

See?

Stupid.

But now she's trapped in the elevator and it's too late to go back, especially when the elevator doors open and a nurse greets her much too enthusiastically.

"Hi Hon," the nurse almost yells at her, taking her by the arm and pulling her over to the receptionist's desk. "You're so sweet to come up here to the hospital to see your friend."

"Wait," Santana says, eyeing the woman curiously, "How do you know me?"

"Why your friend Blaine rang us on the horn and said you'd be making your way over to see us," the woman says with a mega-watt smile. She smacks on the gum she's chewing impatiently, waiting on Santana's reaction to make sure she's got the right girl.

"Right," Santana affirms slowly and the woman kicks out of her stupor, dragging her down the hall and toward the hospital rooms.

"Now, my names April and I'll be right out here should you need anything, alright sugar?" she says, as they're standing in front of a closed hospital room door. "Now, you two play nice," she adds sweetly, knocking loudly on the door and singing out _Visitor_ before leaving Santana standing awkwardly on her own.

She barely has time to wrap her head around anything before the door is opened suddenly and she's staring into the face of an older woman – something about her oddly familiar.

Then the woman pulls her into a crushing embrace, nearly destroying the flowers.

"Oh you dear, wonderful woman," the woman cries, rocking Santana slowly back and forth and squeezing her so hard she can hardly breathe.

"Ma," Brittany chides through a giggle. "Turn her loose. She can't breathe."

"I'm sorry," the woman sniffles, letting her hold slacken. "I'm just so grateful. Thank you so much."

"Just doing my job, Ma'am," Santana says, daring a glance at Brittany and finding the blonde biting back a smile.

"You must let me make you dinner," Brittany's mother insists and Santana shakes her head.

"No, I can't-"

"She's not going to take no for an answer," Brittany says cutely, her face displaying amusement at what's she's seeing.

"I most certainly will not," Brittany's mom reasserts and Santana doesn't really feel like she has a choice.

"Guess I can't say no, then," Santana says and the woman pulls her into another bone-crushing hug, almost lifting her off the floor.

"Now, I've gotta go get your little brother from MeMaw's," Brittany's mom says, bustling over to Brittany and giving her a kiss on the forehead, mindful of the bandage there. "But I'll be right back."

"I'll be fine, Ma," Brittany says, rolling her eyes but her mother just sucks her teeth, hearing none of it before turning to Santana.

"And I'll expect to see you soon for dinner, young lady," she adds and Santana gulps before answering.

"Yes Ma'am."

"Good," Brittany's mother nods, waving to them both one more time before taking her leave.

And once she's gone Santana slumps against the door dramatically.

"I think that woman rearranged some vertebrae," she says through a smile.

"What about a zebra?" Brittany asks, cocking her head to the side.

But Santana only shakes her head, smiling wider. "Never mind," she says, walking over to the side off Brittany's hospital bed. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy," Brittany says, her smile bright.

"Peachy?" Santana answers, skeptical.

"Well, I do have those first degree burns on my hand like you said," Brittany says, holding up her bandaged right arm. "And I must've cut my head when that stuff fell on us or maybe I did hit my head because I've got stitches here," she adds, touching the small bandage on her head. "But other than that I'm peachy," she concludes, "Especially with my little red magic feel good button."

Brittany holds up the morphine dispenser with her uninjured hand and Santana cracks up, feeling a lot more at ease.

"So," Brittany hedges, nodding at the items still firmly in Santana's grasp, "Who are those for?"

Santana clears her throat, feeling her face heat up and Brittany's eyes on her as she drops them to her hands. "They're, um, for you," she says, shyly as she thrusts the gifts forward. "Here."

Brittany giggles, taking the flowers first and lying them in her lap before reaching for the stuffed bird.

"Tweety?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

Santana scratches a non-existent itch on her neck. "Yeah. I, uh, noticed he was on your shirt so, I dunno, I thought you might like it," she says, shrugging a little, then laughs at herself. "It's probably stupid."

"No, not stupid," Brittany says, sternly, snuggling the bird close. "He's actually my favorite. And Lord Tubbington's also but I think that's just because it's on his bucket list to eat him."

Santana looks confused for about three seconds before the fog recedes. "Oh," she says, nodding through a smile. "You mean the cat."

Brittany nods. "You met him?"

"Not personally but the scratches on Finn's arm make me feel like he and I are kindred spirits," Santana smirks, pleased with Brittany's reaction to her gifts. "So, how long are you going to be in here for?" she asks, leaning up against the bed a little, her hands wrapping around the lowered bedrail now that they're empty, her fingers inadvertently brushing against the fingers of Brittany's gauze wrapped hand.

Santana looks down at them, her dark skin contrasting nicely with Brittany's. She bites her lip, awaiting Brittany's response and slowly grazing her fingers over the other woman's ever so gently, deliberately this time.

"Not too long," Brittany answers, her bright eyes watching Santana's fingers dance over her own. "They mostly want to keep me to make sure I don't have a concussion."

"And after that?" Santana asks and Brittany shrugs.

"I guess I'm going home," she says.

Santana nods, swallowing thickly. "So…" she starts, her hand finally lightly resting atop Brittany's, "You think, you know, maybe after you get out of here, um, you'd want to-"

"Hey sugar boogers," April says as she comes into the room. "I hate to be that drunk uncle that gets so grabby at the family function that everybody calls it an early night but I'm gonna have to break up the party. Visiting hours are over, hon."

Santana – who'd snatched her hand away the moment April'd come in – looks at Brittany then back to April, the question she was about to ask dying on her lips.

"Okay," she nods, giving Brittany a small, tight smile. "I'll see you around, Brittany."

"Good night, Santana," Brittany says, squeezing the Tweety bird tight against her chest and bestowing Santana with a smile so beautiful that the brunette feels a thousand times lighter.

She practically floats down the hall to the elevator and then across the parking lot to her car.

It isn't until then that she realizes she forgot to get Brittany's number.

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

"Why are you here on your day off?" Blaine asks in confusion as Santana walks up the firehouse driveway. He tilts his head to the side. "And why are you dressed like _that_?"

"Like what?" Santana asks, looking down at her jeans and tank top ensemble. "What's wrong with what I have on?"

"I don't know. You look different," Blaine shrugs, his hair still all over his head.

"That's because it's not blue," she snaps at him, annoyance just adding to her already frayed nerves. "I look fine."

"I'm not disputing that, but, like, the only time I've ever seen you dressed like _that_ you were going on a…."Blaine trails off into a gasp. "No way," he almost squeals. "Are you going on a date?"

"Shut up," Santana grumbles but she can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "No I'm not going on a date. But, I am going to see someone."

Blaine grins. "A special someone?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

Santana won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that though. "I just wanted to look nice."

"Hmm…" Blaine says, "This wouldn't have anything to do with that little hospital visit yesterday, would it?"

Santana fights off the smile with all of her being but still it breaks through and her charade is broken.

"I knew it," Blaine jumps a little, "My gaydar's flawless and you were way too weird in your hospital room. Are you going to see her right now?"

"Yeah," Santana nods, "Visiting hours start up in a little bit-"

"Then _why _are you still here talking to me," he says, placing his hands on her hips and spinning her around. "Get out of here."

"No, wait, Blaine," Santana says, stubbornly resisting his attempts to move her – like the hospital is right in front of her or something. "What if she doesn't like me?"

"Why wouldn't she?" Blaine says point-blankly, still pushing but Santana stands firm, crossing her arms and pouting.

"Look, Santana," Blaine says, stepping around and in front of her and taking her by the shoulders, "I know the whole gay thing is a big deal to you and yes, you're taking a huge scary step just putting yourself out there like that. But what did I tell you before? People _can_ surprise you. But first you_ have_ to give them a chance to let them try."

Santana takes in what he says, nodding once she's finally come to a conclusion. "You watched way too much Oprah."

"Blasphemy," Blaine laughs, fake-punching her in the shoulder.

"Thanks," Santana says seriously, avoiding his eyes to take the sweetness out of the moment.

"Aww," Blaine says, having none of it and wrapping her up in a hug. "It's my little lesbian that could."

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

Santana's got a whole speech worked out in her head when she reaches Brittany's floor this time, and, thankfully, there are no weird ass nurses named April to throw her off her stride.

There is however, a roommate named Rachel.

And she's loud.

"Are you here to escort Brittany and I down?" Rachel asks her when she comes in, already pushing one of Brittany's bags into Santana's hands. "I didn't know hospitals had doorwomen."

"Rachel," Brittany laughs at Santana's mortified face. "That's not a doorwoman. That's Santana."

"Santana?" Rachel frowns, mulling the name over but then her eyes alight in recognition. "Oh, you're Brittany's new friend. The firefighter?"

"She rescued me," Brittany nods, smiling angelically at Santana.

"Yes, yes," Rachel waves her off, focusing her whole of attention on Santana. "Isn't being a firefighter incredibly dangerous and unpredictable? Is that suit really heavy? What's that tall guy's name again? Do you guys have a Dalmatian dog?"

"_Rachel_," Brittany groans. "Can you please stop bothering her and take my stuff to the car?"

Rachel gestures to Brittany's dressing kit. "But I still have to-"

"I can manage, Rach," Brittany grits out through clenched teeth.

"Fine," Rachel tosses out dismissively, already bustling to the door with two hospital baggies. "I'll be waiting downstairs in the car."

Brittany shakes her head after her friend while Santana works on getting her bearings back. "Your friend is…quite the character," she finally says, not wanting to offend Brittany.

"She's obnoxious," Brittany states with no hesitation. "It's okay. You can say it."

Santana shakes her head, giving Brittany a wry smile and Brittany chuckles, backing up until she's seated, once again, on her hospital bed.

"Checking out?" Santana asks, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah," Brittany answers, picking at the fabric of her shorts. "I'll be staying with my folks for a while. Rach and I both, actually."

Something about the way she says that makes Santana suddenly anxious. "Wait," Santana asks, "Is she your-"

"NO," Brittany practically shouts, her eyes incredibly large. "Wow, Santana. Give me a little more credit than that."

"I'm sorry," Santana says ruefully, looking sheepish.

"Besides," Brittany says, flipping her hair back. "She's not really my type."

"Oh yeah?" Santana prods, taking a step closer.

"Yeah," Brittany answers back, flirtatiously. She pushes herself back up into a standing position, moving toward Santana until she's invading the other woman's personal space.

Santana swallows, her throat gone suddenly dry. "Brittany," she whispers out, not really having anything to follow it up with.

"Yes?" Brittany whispers back, her eyes amused at Santana's reaction.

"I'm gay too," Santana blurts out then feels like an idiot for it, because _duh, Santana_.

Brittany, for all her wonderfulness, just laughs lightly, not allowing Santana the chance to be mortified as she cups her face with both hands, and Santana wonders how the skin of Brittany's uninjured hand feels even softer than the cotton of the gauze bandage.

"I kind of figured that out, already," Brittany smiles, her eyes going so, so, so blue. "I'm kind of a genius."

Santana finally reacts, her hands coming up to rest lightly on Brittany's hips. "I want to kiss you."

"I know that too," Brittany says. "When are you going to surprise me, Sant-"

Santana presses her lips against Brittany's then, never mind that they're in a hospital room where anybody can walk in, never mind that she's never even asked the girl out, never mind that she doesn't even know her last name.

She kisses Brittany like it was one of the only things she was ever meant to do, putting everything she has into the twist of her lips, and when Brittany's mouth falls open slightly in a gasping moan, Santana takes full advantage, kissing Brittany so heatedly that it feels hotter than it did when they were in the fire.

Finally, she pulls away, breathing becoming an issue and she smiles when Brittany attempts to chase after, eyes still shut tightly.

"Are you surprised now?" she quips, feeling pretty proud at how she's flipped the script.

Brittany nods, her eyes still screwed shut as she bites her lip. "Surprise me again?" she asks, cutely.

Santana chuckles but complies, dutifully, kissing Brittany until she's sure she'll need the oxygen tank again.

***O**o*o*O*o*o**O***

It turns out that Blaine was right; sometimes people _can _surprise you.

_Fin._


	40. Yours Truly

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **I sound like a broken record these days, but I'm sorry for the delay. I've just been staring at stories lately. And re-reading really old stuff for motivation. Question: How is Italy? 'Cause I'm thinking of going. Drop me some info in a review my European friends. Thanks for reading guys.

* * *

><p>6:05 A.M.<p>

_Beep Beep Beep_

"_Good morning, Clevelanders. Today is Friday, February 14__th__. Valentine's day. A.K.A. the day of love. Hopefully, you're snuggling up to your sweetheart or planning to later. And if you're not, well, it's not too late. The world's full of people, just wandering around and waiting for that special someone. And that someone could be you. In the meantime, in between time, here's a little romance to get your day going."_

Santana groans, more than annoyed when the first strains of Journey's _Faithfully_ filter out of the alarm clock perched on her nightstand.

"Forever yours my ass," she murmurs, pissed.

Actually, pissed might be a bit of an overstatement. She's mostly just cranky because of the insane hour she's forced to wake up every morning just to make it to work by nine because downtown Cleveland rush hour traffic sucks ass but a small percentage of it maybe has to do with the whole romance and love stuff.

You see, Santana doesn't believe in love.

Call her a Grinch or whatever but she's so not into the handholding, kissy-faces, snuggling, cuddling, and overall fluffiness that people like to call love. Honestly, she just thinks a lot of people have deluded themselves into thinking that a person that makes your happy place extra tingly is a person you should love or be in love with when really, it's just super-awesome sex.

More people should be like her; there'd be a lot more happy people she's sure of it because they'd be getting laid more regularly.

* * *

><p>"Good Morning, Santana."<p>

Oh God. Shoot Her.

Somehow, and she doesn't know how, she manages a smile. "Hey Blaine."

The guy smiles, that same wide, completely endearing and trusting smile he always does, as he climbs into the elevator cabin with her. "It's a great day, isn't it?"

"Meh," she shrugs, opting for the charade of looking for something in her handbag. It usually works. "It's Friday. So I guess that makes it good."

"Oh don't be silly," Blaine says, fixing her with a funny look. "It's Valentine's Day."

She sighs. "And there's that," she says dryly.

He laughs outright at her non-enthusiasm, apparently finding it amusing. Santana inwardly curses their slow-ass elevator lift. "You're such a card, Santana. I'm sure _you've_ got plans for tonight."

"Yes, I am going to go home and change into a Cupid outfit and prance around the city throwing red glitter at strangers walking in pairs."

Okay, she doesn't really say that aloud because a) she's not that crazy and b) Blaine's her supervisor and she actually needs to keep this job, even though she wants to yell at him on a regular basis that the bowtie thing is like so four years ago.

"Not really," she goes for instead of lying about some non-existent love interest like she usually does. She can tell it takes him by surprise when his tri-brows disappear in his hairline.

"Oh," Blaine says dumbly, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. And she knows why. Had she copped to some plans – made up or otherwise – he'd be given the pass to go on about his beloved Kurt and how gay they are for one another.

But now that he knows that she's not doing anything, saying anything else would be kind of uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Santana says, shrugging indifferently. "So…"

"Yeah," Blaine says, nodding once.

Awkward.

Gratefully, they finally reach their floor, the _ding _of the elevator alert sounding like music to her ears and Blaine makes a hasty retreat, calling out a belated "Enjoy your day!" as he dashes down the hallway.

Santana watches him leave with a smirk, pleased to have ruffled him so tremendously before booking it to her cubicle, glad that she's arrived early enough to bypass Rachel, the newlywed, and Mercedes, the recently affianced.

She would not be able to handle their schmaltz today.

Gracefully, she sheds her coat, turning into her workspace by rote.

She stops suddenly, coat midway off her shoulders.

Backs up a few feet, re-rounds the corner, looks at the name on the outside of her cubicle, turns back around the corner and yep, it's still there.

The massively huge bouquet of flowers taking up three-quarters of her entire workspace is still there.

What. The fuck?

Santana looks around the office, expecting to find someone with a camera, a group of her colleagues ready to cackle like hyenas at what surely must be a prank but all she sees is empty cubes and Wally.

And he's already deeply engrossed in his online Sudoku tournament so…

Slowly, Santana slips her coat off the rest of the way, depositing it and her bag on her small filing cabinet.

Why is there a massively huge – and, though she admits it begrudgingly, stunningly beautiful with all of it's variety and bright colors – floral arrangement sitting in the middle of her workspace?

"It must be a mistake," she says to no one in particular, moving toward the thing as if she's afraid it's going to bite her. "Yeah," she surmises with a shrug, plucking the white card from the center of the bouquet. "That's it. It's a mistake."

However, the message the card carries sings a completely different tune.

_Miss Santana Lopez,_

_I hope these flowers add a little brightness to your day. I'll see you tonight. _

_Sincerely,_

_Yours Truly XoXo _

Santana flips the card over, expecting there to be more information, a little more explanation for the random gift but there's nothing. Nothing more than the address and phone number of the floral service that apparently provided the arrangement.

Again.

What. The fuck?

For a moment she starts to think that maybe her friends or co-workers concocted this little charade a prank or something.

But her friends are back home in Lima and Puck, while idiotic enough to think something like this amusing, lacks the creativity and, shortly, the attention span to pull off something this elaborate. And Sugar has gotten herself involved in some Madonna-esque religion where she no longer celebrates holidays so she doubts it's her.

And her co-workers?

Let's just say they'd probably not want to incur the wrath of her eleven circles of hell and she knows it's seven or whatever but she's adding an extra two because that's how pissed off she'd be.

No, none of those are viable solutions and she's done contemplating.

Now, it's time to take action.

* * *

><p>"<em>Happy Valentine's Day and thank you for calling Flowers N' Stuff. This is Sam speaking. How can I help you?"<em>

"Hi," Santana starts, keeping her voice low, not wanting to be overheard, "Samuel, was it?"

"_Actually, it's-"_

"Samuel," she interrupts, "I have a bit of a problem. You see… I received some flowers from your store-"

"_Were they damaged?"_ the guy worriedly asks.

"No, I just…is there…I'd like to know who sent them to me?"

"_They didn't come with a card?"_

"No, it did-"

"_Sorry, Miss. We can't reveal anonymous senders."_

"What? That's stupid. What if I wanted to send something back?"

"_Then I'd take your order and ship it to the sender. Look, I hate to be short but it's Valentine's Day and we're a flower shop so…"_

"Right. But if you could just-"

_**CLICK.**_

Santana stares at her office phone incredulously, not believing that the guy has the nerve to hang up on here. Perhaps she needs to try a different approach.

"_Hello_," the same voice answers as before, minus the Valentine's Day spiel.

"Hey sexy," she purrs, putting all the seduction she can muster into her tone.

"_Well, hello," _the guy says, his voice lowering, "_Someone's having an awesome morning."_

"Uh huh," she says after rolling her eyes, "I was hoping you could do me a favor…" Santana wracks her brain for a nickname, "uh, stud."

The voice on the other end snorts. _"You know we have caller ID right?"_

Santana scoffs. "You asshole."

"_That was hilarious," _the Sam guy laughs, "_Look, you're obviously desperate to find out who sent you the flowers… Santana Lopez and, normally, we'd be a little lax in our anonymity protocol."_

"I'm sensing a 'but' here."

"_But, unfortunately, this particular client has paid a pretty penny to remain in the shadows."_

"Okay, I get that. But isn't there something, some clause or exception. I mean, what if this guy's some creeper who steals my underwear and is quietly planning my demise?"

Sam laughs again. _"You've got some imagination on you but I really doubt she's into that."_

"She?"

"_Yeah, hey look, I'm really sorry and I wish I could be of more help but I really need to go."_

"No, yeah. Go," Santana says, shaking her head. "And thank you," she tacks on, just before the call disconnects again.

_She? _Santana thinks, hanging up the phone. _Her mystery gift giver is a she?_

Not that Santana's against a she because that's all she's ever into but who the hell could this person be?

"Santana!"

Oh shit.

Santana does her best to hide the colossal arrangement, standing quickly and splaying her arms wide but it's no use.

Rachel gasps. "Are those flowers? Who sent you flowers?"

"Santana," Quinn asks, fluttering her eyelashes cutely, "Are you having a secret love affair?"

"What?" Santana shrugs, laughing awkwardly. "No. That's absurd."

Quinn's look is a smug one, a lone eyebrow raising as she runs her tongue along the line of her teeth. "Well, who sent you the flowers then?"

"My mom," Santana answers with a roll of her eyes, carefully tucking the card into her blazer jacket pocket without being detected, "Now, can I have some privacy please? So I can get to work," she adds pointedly.

Rachel's quicker to scramble away than Quinn, always seemingly afraid of Santana. Quinn just slowly walks away, a knowing look on her face and a murmured "Mmhmm" voicing every bit of disbelief she undoubtedly feels.

She waits until they're completely gone before falling back into her office chair with a sigh, her eyes regarding the bouquet with trepidation. After another moment, she decides to just move the thing, sitting them in the corner of her cubicle, intent on putting this whole morning episode behind her.

It isn't until she finds her eyes tripping over there every ten minutes or so that she realizes how impossible a task that is going to be.

* * *

><p>"Let me get that for you, Miss."<p>

Santana nods her head with a quick 'thanks', juggling her briefcase and the – sigh – the huge bouquet of flowers.

It took some contemplation but, for some reason, as she stood perched in front of the office's compactor chute, she couldn't bring herself to throw the flowers in.

Now, she kind of wishes she had though because the amount of strangers giving her warm looks is very much freaking her out.

"Hey," some guy with a tie-dye shirt on calls out as she passes him by on her way to the parking garage she regularly uses, "Someone thinks you're a totally groovy chick."

Santana can do nothing more than look at him oddly before an older lady is tacitly touching her arm, smiling kindly.

"You should smile more," she says, "It's a good look on you."

On and on it goes until fifteen strangers in total have paid her random compliments and Santana's not stupid because she pretty much caught on after person three's "This one is pretty cheesy but I didn't know angels flew so low" that the whole thing was staged.

Her suspicions confirmed when the last stranger makes mention of Yours Truly looking forward to tonight. Whoever this person is, they've definitely covered all their bases, and she has to cop to being impressed, even if this is all so very cheesy.

The cheesiness, however, doesn't keep her from blushing like Blaine when Janet had that nip-slip accident, which is beyond absurd because she never blushes.

In fact, she blushes all the way home, even during that never-ending stretch that is the i-90 highway, a funny smile making its way to her face.

It's dumb because this whole thing could be complete bullshit.

Or Yours Truly could be a crazy psycho chick she hit and quit ages ago and has spent years crafting an elaborate and devastating revenge plot, meant to complete obliterate any thoughts of romance Santana has – if she'd ever had any to begin with.

But there's this small, heretofore never known part of her that's maybe a little bit excited.

And that's a lot scary.

* * *

><p>Another door.<p>

Another struggle.

This time a friendly neighbor helps her out, the woman holding the door open for Santana on her way out.

"Thank you," Santana breathes, grateful.

"Pretty flowers," the woman comments, her eyes lingering on Santana's form. And it's only then that Santana recognizes her as creepy fedora chick from the second floor.

"Um, yeah," Santana says, hurrying past her.

"Girlfriend's a lucky girl," Fedora says, backing out of the building.

Santana can't get away quickly enough.

She's appreciative as ever when she gets to her lift and even more so when the elevator finally makes it to her floor.

She just really needs a moment to chill.

When she reaches her apartment, however, it becomes apparent chilling out is not going to be a choice.

"Oh my God, Santana," Martin, her doorman, says, waving her over frantically. "I know you made me swear to never use the mater key to open your apartment but these boxes just kept coming and I couldn't just leave them out in the hall because it's a fire hazard according to that old crank Sylvester and Mr. Schuester would kick my teeth in. Please don't fricassee my balls because-"

Santana finally holds up a hand to stop him. "It's fine, Martin. And, what boxes?"

Without answering, Martin opens Santana's apartment door and reveals the stacks of white boxes concealed within. Each one is stamped with the familiar M.J. logo from Mercedes Jones' super-exclusive boutique located in downtown Cleveland, a shop Santana's vaguely familiar with having gone too once with a friend on a whim.

The place is friggin' expensive.

Slowly, Santana steps inside, careful as she deposits her flowers and keys on her hallway table.

There has to be at least fourteen boxes, not counting the two Martin's still holding. She scoops one up, opening it slowly and gasps at her findings. Inside is a dress, sharp red, knee-length and fabulous-looking.

She opens another box to find another dress, this time the gown flows longer and it's just as gorgeous a the last.

"Who sent these?" she asks, almost to herself and forgetting Martin's even still in the room until he starts fidgeting, balancing the two boxes on his upturned palm as he produces a small envelope.

Santana wastes no time in snatching it from him, quickly ushering him out the door.

"Hey," he yelps from the hallway, "What about my tip?

"Axe body spray is not cologne," she yells out absently, regarding the card in her hands with interest.

She shouldn't.

Like, she really shouldn't.

All of this stuff is like _so_ not her deal and yet…

Curiosity wins out and Santana can't find the grin that leaks across her face when she recognizes the same familiar scrawl from this morning's note.

_Miss Santana Lopez,_

_If I am at least partly successful today, you're in a good mood. I hope you don't mind the amount of dresses. I just wanted you to be comfortable in whatever you choose to wear tonight, although, honestly, I wouldn't care if you showed up wearing a garbage bag. You'd still look great in it._

_Looking forward to our evening together and hopefully, at this point, you are too. A car will be by at 6:30 to collect you._

_Signed,_

_Yours Truly_ _XoXo_

_P.S. The dresses are all red because red looks really good on you._

* * *

><p>She sends a text to Puck:<p>

_If I'm on the news tomorrow, save this text and show it to the po-po. Going out with chick I've never met._

Puck's response:

_What? This sounds like the opening to an episode of _Disappeared_._

And she sends one to Sugar:

_Going out on a blind date._

Sugar's response:

_I'm texting you in an hour to make sure you're still alive._

Why is she going out on this thing again?

In all honestly, after she'd settled down and gotten over the weird excitement of it all, pragmatic Santana decided to make an appearance. And pragmatic Santana has come to the somewhat logical conclusion that Yours Truly is a) highly interested in her, which is a major plus in regard to her ego and 2) friggin' loaded. They'd have to be in order to pull off the day's stunts.

So, she'll go and – worst case scenario – be bored out of her mind or creeped out while eating free food, and any scenario where Santana gets fed for free is a good one so…

Plus, Yours Truly is right on the money.

She doesn't look spectacular in this dress.

* * *

><p>The car arrives at 6:30 on the dot, impressing Santana once again with the punctuality.<p>

She'd actually been hoping – secretly hoping, but hoping nonetheless – that Yours Truly would be waiting in the limousine cab for her (oh yeah, you heard her, lim-ou-sine) but when the driver held the door open for her she saw nothing accept a white lily and another card that simply read "_Almost_."

Her stomach fluttered a little then but she blamed it on the sudden dip on her hilly street.

"Yo, Benson," she asks, rapping on the partition window until it rolls down, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the Marriott at Key Center."

That was relatively easy.

"Uh huh," Santana says, trying to sound disinterested. "And who am I going to see?"

"Nice try, Ms. Lopez," the driver says, glancing up at her through the rearview mirror. "But I've been sworn to secrecy."

Santana deflates. "Not even a hint?"

"Afraid not."

"Ugh," Santana grumbles, slumping even further back. "You're useless, Bentley," she comments, though not as maliciously as she could.

The driver just laughs.

* * *

><p>"Here we are."<p>

Santana is not impressed.

"This looks like a parking garage."

"Indeed," Jeffery says, unlocking the car doors and suddenly Santana's anxiety peaks.

"I have pepper spray in my bag and razor blades in my hair, Mr. Belvedere."

"Trust me," the driver says while getting out of the car, "You won't need either."

He travels the short distance to her door and opens it, holding out a hand to help her out. "And my name is Burt."

"_Finally_, you tell me," Santana says, letting him help her up.

Burt escorts Santana a short walking distance to a dimly lit lift that very much resembles a freight elevator.

"This is where we part ways, Ms. Lopez."

"But…but, but…I'm not ready yet," Santana say, starting to panic again.

"Sure you are," Burt assures her, smiling warmly as he helps her into the elevator. "And don't worry, she won't bite."

"Who won't bite?" Santana asks, groaning when the lift door chooses that moment to close, Burt's wink the last thing she sees before it starts to ascend.

She feels like throwing up and for a moment contemplates finding the emergency stop button and calling the police but in that momentary contemplation the lift reaches its destination, the gears grinding to a halt.

She holds her breath, waiting for the doors to open when-

"Aw hell," Santana complains.

Before her stands an impeccably dressed man, his face stoic at best as he regards her silently.

"You're going to kill me aren't you?" she asks the guy, fear and anxiety, manifesting itself in the form of her sarcasm. "Just, leave the face intact, 'kay? I want an open casket."

The man doesn't really react much, only raises his hand to his face, speaking into his cuff. "All clear."

There's some radio noise and static, which Santana can't figure out at all but then the guy steps aside to reveal-

"Yours Truly," Santana says aloud, nearly breathless.

"Guilty as charged," Brittany says, stepping forward with a shy smile.

Santana, to her credit, is surprised she's still standing. Before her, wearing a smile, a killer suit, and holding an identical lily stands Brittany S. Pierce, U.S. Representative, and, in all likelihood, future Ohio Senator.

She's a multi-millionaire, genius theoretical physicist, and gorgeous as all fucking hell.

Someone is pranking the shit out of her.

"You're Yours Truly?" Santana asks incredulously, unable to table her skepticism.

"I hope you're not too upset with the secrecy and everything. I'm not exactly out though for obvious reasons so it's not like I can just say 'hi, wanna go out some time?' Not that I'd ever be smooth enough to actually say that."

"Wait a minute, just…let me catch up," Santana says, trying to get her bearings back and, unknowingly of course, ending Brittany's nervous ramble. "How do you even know me?"

Now Brittany looks confused. "I see you at the office from time to time, when I come to check in on my accounts."

When Santana continues to look perplexed, Brittany resumes. "_LT International_? That's me."

"Get the fuck out," Santana asks, legitimately shocked.

"Really?" Brittany asks, face falling. "Um, okay. Sorry to have wasted your time."

"Wait, I'm- I didn't mean for you to go," Santana stutters out. "I'm just-"

Brittany takes a hesitant step forward, literally halting Santana's words. "I really like you, Santana."

Santana feels really weird, like warm all over and faint. She'd actually think she were in a dream but her heart's beating so hard and steady that she can't help but be reminded that this is something she is definitely living through.

"How-"

"I know we've never met personally so I don't know a whole lot about you but what I _do _know, I like," Brittany says, moving even closer. "Like, when you're really pleased about something you smile so wide your dimples show. And I like how all the paperwork you sign has little hearts where the 'I' dots should be. And, I really, really like how you look in red."

Santana still looks out of sorts. "I…don't do this," she says, gesturing around and finally taking note of the small, intimately set table and the low lighting. "I don't do the whole romantic song and dance thing."

"No one's going to be singing tonight, Santana," Brittany assures her, smiling a crooked grin. "I can't make the same promise about dancing though."

"Seriously, Brittany…romance is…it's stupid," she murmurs, hugging her arms to herself as the congresswoman closes the small amount of space still separating them. "And love…is dumb."

Brittany, for all of nervousness from before, seems bold as she takes one of Santana's hands in both of her own, caressing the back of it gently. "Well, it looks like I've got my work cut out for me then."

Santana wasn't expecting that response. "What do you mean?"

"Proving you wrong," Brittany says with a smile and glittering eyes. "And if that means I have to be the cheesiest, goofiest, most romantical person on the planet then that's just what I'm going to have to do," she concludes with a playful shrug.

Suddenly, she dips Santana low in a classic and elegant move that Santana was definitely not expecting, her arms flying up to wrap around Brittany's neck.

Brittany gives her a moment to recover from the shock before leaning in and kissing her, chastely but with enough heat behind it to make Santana whimper, much to the woman's embarrassment.

Santana's hands twitch, her grip on Brittany tightening imperceptibly but all too soon the woman's pulling away, eyes inquisitive as they search Santana's face for any sign of consternation.

Santana can see the relief wash over her features when she bestows her with a smile. "Well, Brittany. I'd say you're off to a pretty good start."


	41. Pride

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** I feel like I really forced this one so I don't like it obviously. But I felt an obligation to get something up this week because of all the notes that ficlet got. I would've felt bad otherwise. So, with that being said, I might end up making this 51-first times. But that's it. No more than that, lol. Thanks for giving me the Italy feedback. I definitely think I'm going to go. Question number two: Someone PM'd me on Tumblr asking if they should watch the upcoming episode of _Glee_ and I am _so_ the worst person to ask about any of that because I haven't watched an episode in…OMG, it's been years. Wow. So I have no idea what's going on and, yeah. No. But I'll pose the question to you guys and maybe they'll get the answer this way ('cause I accidentally deleted the ask). Okay, that's it. Love you guys. Oh, and I'm beta-less and planning on staying that way so apologies for typos and such.

* * *

><p>"You want me to what?"<p>

Santana stares incredulously at her two – soon to be former – best friends, not even daring to open the door any further lest they get the crazy idea to forcibly take her.

They're both bigger than her.

She wouldn't stand much of a chance.

"You promised you'd hear us out," Mercedes reminds her cheekily, standing in that haughty way that screams 'I wish you _would_ close the door on me.'

"Yeah, I did promise that," Santana confirms. "But hearing you out is sounding more and more like making me do something I don't want to do."

"Santana," Puck states, using a tone of voice with her she's not very accustomed to hearing, like, ever. "Look, nobody was more bummed than me to hear that you'd fallen off the sausage sedan," he starts, until Mercedes smacks him for being crude. "Ow! What, I'm being honest. But…now that you're queer and you're here, I say it's time that you embrace it. Not to mention all the residual tail I could score when you inevitably hit on every straight girl there."

Santana pops an eyebrow. "Please, you'll probably be too busy trying to keep your tail from being gawked at."

Puck pales. "What?"

Santana just shakes her head and Mercedes laughs, walking her fingers up his bicep to tap him on the shoulder. "You do know that there will be gay _boys _there as well don't you?"

"Of course," Puck laughs dismissively, even though his face decidedly says otherwise.

"Looks like we're going to have to be his bodyguards, 'Cedes."

Mercedes grins. "So, does that mean…?"

"Yes," Santana reluctantly nods, rolling her eyes. "I'll go to goddamn Columbus pride with you."

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm so excited…and I just can't hide it…I'm about to lose control and I think I like it…"<em>

Brittany dances around her bedroom, throwing random odds and ends into her backpack as she jams out into her hairbrush.

The song blaring out from her iPhone couldn't be more accurate today because she is extremely excited, elated even.

Today, she – and Artie and Tina, of course – are going to finally be allowed to do something adult on. Their. Own. They're driving into Columbus for Pride, her first one ever in her eighteen years of existence and with summer slowly turning into fall, and the promise of Senior year looming in the distance, Brittany's planning to make her first tentative step into adulthood a memorable one.

"Brittany Susan!" her mom's voice sounds from downstairs. "Your friends are here!"

Like a shot, Brittany's got her backpack slung over her shoulder and is flying down the stairs, a blonde blur flashing by her mother. "Bye Ma."

"Call me when you get there," the woman calls out with a chuckle, her voice floating out behind Brittany just before she shuts the door.

"Hey guys," she breathes, forgoing the door and just hopping over the passenger door of Tina's old, but much beloved, drop-top Chevy Impala. "Let's roll!"

"Someone got slapped upside the head with a happy stick," Tina chuckles, Brittany's emphatic happiness as contagious as always.

"Tina, that's gross," Brittany comments, wrinkling her nose. "I don't need to know what you and Artie do in bed."

"Um, that's…that's not what that means," Artie corrects her, blushing about as red as the exterior of the car while Tina just laughs.

"I know, silly," Brittany says, reaching between the two seats to squeeze his shoulders. "Artie, sometimes I wonder about your intelligence, bruh."

* * *

><p>"Santana?"<p>

"Hmm?"

"Okay, I'm going to ask you something, but I don't want you to get mad, alright? This is a judge-free, and most importantly, a no-manbits-violence zone."

Santana turns away form staring at the miles of cornfield to look at him. "Just ask me Puck."

"Have you ever…kissed a girl before?" He cringes the moment he says it, already raising his hands in defense, but, to his surprise, the blow never comes. Instead, when he finally does peek his eyes open to look at her, Santana's…is she really? She's actually blushing.

"Oh wow," Puck says. "Mercedes, you were totally right."

"Of course I'm right," Mercedes says, carefully scrutinizing Santana through her rear-view mirror. "I'm her best friend."

"Hey," Puck gripes. "Me too. But I had no idea she'd never gotten anywhere with another girl. I mean, look at her."

"I'm right here, guys," Santana grumbles, speaking up finally.

"Sorry," Puck mumbles.

"Look, is it pathetic I've never even approached another girl?" Santana asks rhetorically, feeling herself get angry. "I don't know. What I _do_ know is that I spent most of my life trying to deny my feelings and the other part hiding them. Add to that that the Lima lesbian population is down to zero now that I'm gone and you have my sad Sapphic love-life in a nutshell."

"You're right, S," Mercedes says, taking a moment to glare at Puck. "Noah's being an insensitive ass as always."

"Whatever," Puck says dismissively, trying to lighten the mood. "You guys love that about me."

"Be that as it may," Mercedes plays along, "You should apologize."

"Sorry, S," Puck says, turning around to give her his best sad puppy dog look. "Am I forgiven?"

Santana fights real hard to keep the smile off her face, twisting her lips every which way, but she fails in the best way when Puck lets it morph into monkey face.

"You're such a loser," she manages through a laugh.

"I'll take that," Puck says, nodding once. "Okay, your revelation has sparked a new game plan. You're gonna kiss some girls. And you're gonna like it," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Puck, we can't turn her into a kissing slut."

"Oh, psh. How's she ever going to get over the hump if she doesn't dive right in? And where better than a Pride Parade?"

"I don't know…"

"Actually," Santana says, interrupting them both. "That could be kind of fun."

"Right on," Puck says with a cheeky grin, holding his hand out for a fist bump. "There's my little lesbo that could."

"…and you just ruined it."

* * *

><p>It was a long drive, longer than necessary considering the two wrong turns they took, but when the small businesses and lazy houses starts looking more colorful and vibrant Brittany knows they're getting closer.<p>

"This is going to be so awesome," she says, voice barely above a whisper as she looks around at the décor surrounding her.

"Look at how many people are here," Tina comments, driving slowly down the street. "Parking's probably going to suck."

And Tina is not exaggerating from what Brittany can see. There are easily hundreds of people here, more than the population of her entire hometown, and they all look happy and carefree and…comfortable.

They look comfortable in a way that she's been longing to be and as her eyes settle on these two men, one squinting up adorably at what must be his partner and the other staring out at the throngs of people with eyes full of pride and wonder she knows that this is where she's meant to be.

* * *

><p>Puck stares out the window, palms flush against the glass. "Whoa."<p>

Mercedes nods, "This is going to sound all kinds of wrong, but I didn't even know there were this many gay friendly people in Ohio."

Santana can't quite believe it either, her eyes bouncing from person to person, couple to couple, scanning the crowds for any ominous signs of anger, fear, shame, or judgment and she finds none; Only smiling faces sharing knowing and coy glances, and loving couples holding hands without fear of persecution.

It puts her at ease instantly.

For a moment, her eyes trip over to a blonde girl lifting a wheelchair out of a car, but just as soon as it happens, Mercedes is turning the corner, trying to find a place to park.

"Okay, so it's time to game plan," Puck says suddenly, leaning against the back of her seat.

"Game plan?" she asks, frowning in confusion.

"Yeah," Puck says simply, as if it should be obvious. "You can't just go into the fray without a plan of action, S. God, you're so gonna suck at this dating girls thing."

"Puck, stop being stupid and explain," Mercedes says, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you need a back story," Puck says. "You can't just walk up to some random chick and be like, 'hey, I've never even kissed a girl before but I wanna start and I'd like you to be first.' Like, no one wants to be anyone's Lance Armstrong."

"I think you mean Neil Armstrong," Santana tells him, dryly. "And, I'm not an idiot Puck, okay? I mean, hello, I know how to pick people up. I've been doing it for years."

"You've been picking _guys _up, which, as sucky as it is to admit, is _not_ hard. With guys, all you gotta do is show a little cleave and we're all over it. Girls take a _lot _more effort," he explains. "Look, why don't you try something out on me?"

Santana laughs. "You cannot be serious."

"Hold up, S," Mercedes says, turning yet another corner. "That might not be such a bad idea. If you actually plan on getting your groove on, you do not want to go into this cold."

"Yeah," Puck agrees. "So, like, just pretend I'm a really attractive girl – 'cause I can already tell you have high standards – and you like my face and stuff."

Santana glances at him, rolling her eyes at his fluttering eyelashes, before settling into her role as approacher.

"Hi," she says.

"Oh, hey," Puck says, sounding disinterested.

"Um, what's your name?" Santana asks.

"None of your business."

"Puck," Santana warns.

"What?" Puck says, breaking character. "This is how girls are all the time. This is almost our first conversation verbatim."

"Fine," Santana says, taking a moment to figure out a way to keep the conversation going. "I know that but, well, I think you're really pretty and wanted to talk to you so I thought it'd be polite to get your name first."

"Well that was too many words," Puck says, breaking character again.

Mercedes smiles. "I thought it was sweet," she says.

"Of course you'd like it," Puck mumbles.

"Look, Santana, " Mercedes starts, finally finding a parking space and pulling into it, "All you gotta do is be yourself. You'll be fine."

* * *

><p>"Welcome to Columbus Pride," a young woman greets, smiling at Brittany and placing a rainbow-beaded necklace around her head.<p>

"Thanks," Brittany grins back brightly, still munching on the cookie she'd just gotten.

"Dude, I gotta say it," Artie comments around the crumbling morsels as Tina pushes him along, "This penis-shaped cookie isn't all that bad."

Tina giggles. "That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Hey," some tall lanky girl with her hair in her eyes says, walking by Brittany and looking at the girl in a way that leaves nothing to be misinterpreted.

"Hey," Brittany says back, smiling shyly and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

The girl keeps walking, her group of friend giggling madly as she keeps her eyes on Brittany though.

"Shit, Britt," Tina comments appraisingly, "That's like the fifth girl that's done that to you and we like, _just _got out of the car."

"I know," Brittany says, feeling self-conscious. "I didn't come here for that, I swear."

"We don't care, Britt," Tina assures her friend, sensing her discomfort. She throws an arm around Brittany's shoulder. "We're just here to celebrate your pride. Besides, getting hit on is so not something to be embarrassed about."

"Yeah," Artie says, rolling around behind the pair and gently ramming into the back of Brittany's legs so that the blonde falls laughingly into his lap. "If you got it, flaunt it, Mama."

* * *

><p>"The Crackle are playing tonight," some woman is telling Santana, handing her a flyer. "You should come," she adds, giving Santana a smile.<p>

Santana grimaces back.

She so sucks at this.

When the woman walks away, Santana lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding and turns around only to find Puck and Mercedes looking equal parts amused and disappointed.

"Dude," Puck says, "Are you _sure _you're into girls?"

Santana punches him in the chest for that one, spinning on her heel fully prepared to march away from them.

But Puck merely slips a finger into the belt loop of her shorts and she goes nowhere.

"Let me go, Puck."

"Will you just relax?" Puck tells her, forcibly turning her back around.

"I am relaxed," she snaps.

"You look like you're afraid every girl here is going to jump you," Mercedes says, keeping her voice low so as to not embarrass her friend. "And I don't think that's how lesbians work."

"Not _all _of them anyway," Puck says, waving a dismissive hand when they shot inquisitive looks his way. "I've seen _the L word_, alright. Steer clear of anyone named Marina."

"Anyway, you're hot shit and all, but I don't think everyone here has ulterior motives for talking to you, alright?" Mercedes explains.

"Okay," Santana nods, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I'll be cool."

Another girl walks by, smiling predatorily at Santana. "Hey sexy."

Santana squeaks.

Puck groans. "Damn it."

* * *

><p>"I know not being able to walk is not fun at all, Artie, but, I mean, I feel like Moses down here," Brittany comments, marveling with how easily the crowd parts for her as she and Artie wheel through the crowd.<p>

"Yeah, it's got its perks," Artie says, peering around her shoulder. "Larger, cleaner bathrooms, choice parking, special elevator privileges."

"Okay, so I found out when the actually parade was starting and where's the best place to stand," Tina says, rejoining them, retying the loose end of her single blue braid. "Also, though I'm not entirely sure, I think I just arranged a date between myself and this little midget loudmouth girl. I told her I'd meet up with her later but looking back on it I probably should've worded it better because she seemed way too excited."

"Aww, T," Brittany chuckles. "Maybe she just needed a friend."

Tina shrugs. "She was very informative though. Like, she knew everything about this weekend," she supplies off-handedly. "And she was kind of pretty…in a classic, not trying to hard kind of way."

Artie nudges Brittany. "Are you thinking about leaving me Tina?"

"Shut up," Tina murmurs, the beginnings of a smile starting to grow on her face.

"Because I don't think I could take it," he continues. "I'd hate it if we made love and then you'd started to fake it," Artie finishes the song lyric with a little up-down shoulder action and Tina smirks at both him and a now laughing Brittany before taking the handles of his wheelchair and spinning them around quickly, Brittany's laughter mutating into an amused shriek.

* * *

><p>"Parade should be starting in a little bit," Mercedes says, trying to start yet another conversation.<p>

Eventually, the newness of everything – the fact that everyone here is so completely and very comfortably openly gay – took its toll on her friend and now Santana is so unsettled that she can't even enjoy the fun of it all.

Which defeats the whole damn point.

Santana just nods and Mercedes sighs, hoping that there's going to be some way she can fix it. But then she notices a girl looking their way, well - she's mostly looking at Santana – and she devises a better plan altogether.

* * *

><p>"What are you looking at?" Tina asks, wondering why Brittany's suddenly gone silent mid-spin.<p>

"No one," Brittany's quick to answer, snapping her head in a different direction entirely.

"I said what, not who," Tina laughs, noting Brittany's unusually bashful demeanor. "And now I'm extra curious because you're blushing."

"No, I'm not," Brittany says, unable to stop her traitorous eyes from glancing over again.

"You totally are," Tina says, her excitement growing when she follows Brittany's line of sight, "And now I totally know why."

"Can someone catch me up, here?" Artie asks, looking confused.

"You should totally go talk to her," Tina tells Brittany, ignoring Artie as she drags Brittany to her feet.

"Talk to who?" Artie asks.

"I _can't_, T," Brittany whines, leaning back against Tina's hands as her friend starts to push her over.

"Yes you can," Tina grunts out, still pushing Brittany towards the girl. "And you're going to, right now."

"Who are we talking about?" Artie nearly shouts.

"Oh god, Artie," Tina groans, rolling her eyes before stooping down to his eye-level and pointing. "Her. Her over there. We're talking about her."

Artie looks sheepish when everyone in their vicinity turns to look at the trio. "Oh."

* * *

><p>"Don't look, but there's a girl looking at you," Mercedes says, keeping her face and tone casual.<p>

Of course, Santana goes and ruins the charade by swiveling to look frantically. "Where?"

"I told you not to look," Mercedes hisses.

"What are we not looking at?" Puck asks, strolling up to the pair while taking a hearty swig from a beer bottle.

"Boy, where'd you get that beer?"

"Oh, some old dude gave it to me. And all I had to do was call him 'daddy'," Puck says with a shrug. "Weirdest thing."

Mercedes just stares at him. "I'm…going to ignore that because…just because-"

"Oh my Yahweh, check out blondie with the mad body," Puck all but yells, not being discreet at all.

"Yeah, that," Mercedes grins.

Santana finally chances a glance where Puck is staring and balks almost immediately when she realizes the girl is looking directly at her.

"S, she's checking you out," Puck says, elbowing her and Santana looks away, ducking her head shyly.

"No, she's not," Santana mumbles. Warily, she looks up again, and again finds the girl's eyes and now she's smiling at Santana.

"Totally is," he sing-songs, "And now she's headed this way."

"What?" Santana almost shouts. "What-what-what do I do?"

"Just be yourself," Mercedes advises, bumping her shoulder companionably. "And trust me, you'll thank us for this later."

"Thank you for what later?" Santana asks, confused.

But Mercedes just smiles and grabs Puck's hand, leading him away and leaving her-

"Mercedes, don't you dare," she grits out when realization sets in.

"Relax, S," Puck intones; giving her a cheesy thumbs-up. "You got this."

"Hi."

She don't got this.

* * *

><p>Brittany feels her heart thumping loudly in her chest in anticipation as she waits for the girl – the prettiest girl she's ever seen – to look at her.<p>

Then, she feels it stop, she's sure of it, when the girl finally does.

"Hi. I'm Brittany," she manages, her voice suddenly sounding foreign to her own ears.

The girl just stares.

"Oh," Brittany says in realization, searching through her memory before using her hands to speak.

Good thing she knows sign language.

"Hi," she mouths slowly, her hands mirroring what she's verbalizing. "I'm B-R-I-"

"Oh, oh no. I'm not deaf," the girl says, stopping her from going any further.

"Oh," Brittany says, "Well I just assumed because you, um, didn't really say anything."

"Yeah, that was," the girl shakes her head at the ground, an embarrassed smile taking full form on her face. "That was…I don't know what that was. Hi, Brittany. My name's Santana."

"Awesome," Brittany answers with a slow-spreading smile.

* * *

><p>"So, is this your first pride?" Brittany asks, not showing a hint of the nerves she feels. The parade's finally starting and the crowd is now pinching together, pressing her and Santana closer together.<p>

She's kinda loving it.

Santana nods. "Yeah, my friends brought me."

"That's cool," Brittany says. "I'm here with my best friend Tina and her boyfriend Artie. Actually, they're both my best friends but I like to give them a hard time about it since they teamed up and left me all by my lonesome," she jokes, pleased when the other girl laughs.

"Well, I doubt you'll be alone very long," Santana says, clearly before thinking about it because the moment's it's out of her mouth her eyes widen and her eyebrows skyrocket to the top of her forehead. "I mean-"

Brittany laughs. "I think I know what you mean," she says coyly, secretly enjoying the way Santana's tripping over her words.

It's like she's never even talked to another person before…or another girl.

Crap, what if she's not gay?

Now it's Brittany's turn to panic.

* * *

><p>Santana's stomach is swirling around like a washing machine on the spin cycle, but the feeling, though it should be, is not an unpleasant one.<p>

This Brittany girl is gorgeous and funny and pretty damn thoughtful when you consider that she was willing to sign when she thought Santana was deaf.

"How about you? Is this your first pride?" Santana asks, gathering all her courage.

Brittany shakes her head, scratching at the side of her neck a little. "Nah. Well, it's my first Columbus one but back home we have a small one at my school."

"That's cool," Santana nods, perfectly prepared to ask Brittany what school she's talking about and where she's from but before she can get out another word someone very forcefully bumps into her, sending her forehead directly into Brittany's chin.

"Hey!" Santana yelps, her body pitching forward.

"Watch it," Brittany semi-snaps, glaring at the quickly retreating stranger. "What a jerk," she comments, her arms fully wrapped around Santana.

"Ow," Santana mutters, lifting her head and freezing.

She's stuck.

* * *

><p>"You okay?" Brittany asks, her eyes concerned as they peer down at Santana.<p>

"You're pretty," Santana whispers back.

Brittany blinks, not quite expecting that, but then she just smiles. "You are too."

Her words seem to shake Santana out of whatever stupor she was in and Brittany watches with amused fascination as the girl before her turns a shade of red she didn't think would be possible with her skin tone.

"Um, thanks," Santana says, pushing away from Brittany until she's upright again. She clears her throat uncomfortably, taking a sudden yet seemingly intense interest in the cobblestone walkway.

Brittany bites her bottom lip, hesitating for just a second before sliding her right hand down Santana's arm to tangle their fingers together.

"No problem," she says.

They hold hands for most of the rest of the parade.

* * *

><p>"'Sup Buddy," Puck says, grinning like a maniac as he, Mercedes, and what she guesses are Brittany's two friends make their way back over. "I see you made a new <em>friend<em>."

She wants to roll her eyes at him or do something else that makes her seem cool again, but she's mostly too thrilled that Brittany's still holding her hand, and still looking at Santana like she's the most interesting thing in the world.

She wants to be smooth and tell Puck to shut up but she can't because she's too busy looking at Brittany the same way.

"Hey, Britt," Tina speaks up next, "We aren't trying to interrupt or anything-"

"I thought that was exactly what we were trying to do," Puck says, confused.

"What they mean to say is we wanted to see if you guys wanted to come see the Crackle," Mercedes fills in. "Apparently they're, like, very good. And since there's six of us, Puck and I can go together, and then Artie and Tina – who are totally cool by the way – can go together and then you and Brittany could go too."

Puck grins, raising an eyebrow. "Together."

She wants to die or maybe just kill Puck first but Brittany's squeezing her hand to get her attention. "Hey," the blonde asks her softly, catching her eye, "You wanna go?"

"Only if I'm going with you," Santana manages, grinning goofily when Brittany's eyes crinkle at the edges with her smile.

"Well, duh," Brittany says, smoothly dropping Santana's hand to instead wrap an arm around her waist. "Where're we headed?"

"This way," Artie says, directing them through the throngs of bodies.

Puck leans into Mercedes, his eyes carefully following the way Brittany's fingers are curled against Santana's hip. "That is so hot."

Mercedes smacks him on the head, sharing a withering look with Tina.

"Boys."

* * *

><p>It doesn't take long to find the spot, literally everyone at the parade that was twenty-three and under started heading in the same direction and the six of them just decided not to fight against the current.<p>

Now, though, they're seated in a pretty primo section, the little flyer Santana had received earlier providing them with what's bound to be an awesome viewing experience.

"Oh, hey, look. There's my daddy," Puck yells, pointing into the crowd at someone. "Hey Daddy!"

Some old guy looks around, smiling when he sees Puck. The young guy he was just making out with smiles too.

Puck swallows his tongue.

"Looks like they want you to join, Puck," Tina says, laughing at the look on the boy's face.

"Shit, guys," Puck says, sounding mortified. "A little warning would've been nice."

"It's not our fault that you're so misinformed about gay culture that you thought it was okay to just randomly call a grown man that isn't your father, 'daddy'," Mercedes says.

"I'm naïve," Puck shrugs, "And I wanted free beer."

"Man, you is funny," Artie chuckles, "I'm glad we're all getting along considering."

Puck waits for him to finish, giving up when it seems like Artie's not going to. "Considering what?"

"Considering the two lovebirds over there are off in their own world," Tina supplies for him, gesturing at Brittany and Santana, but neither girl pay her any attention, too wrapped up in one another to care.

* * *

><p>"You know, Lima's not <em>that <em>far from Ohio State. I mean, it's like a two-hour drive," Brittany says, inching in closer to Santana, so close that their arms are touching.

The two girls are standing a slight distance away from their friends, leaning over the railing of the platform they're standing upon.

"I could totally come visit you sometime," Brittany continues to say, holding her breath as she waits for Santana's response.

"I really wish you would," Santana tells her, leaning her head against Brittany's forearm. "Plus I have my own room so…"

"So…?" Brittany echoes, laughing when Santana very obviously balks. "Damn," Brittany curses.

"What?" Santana asks, glancing up at the other girl shyly.

"You're so cute when you get all flustered and stuff," Brittany says, chuckling when Santana gasps and swats at her.

She uses the opportunity to take Santana's hand again, her thumb rubbing along the top of Santana's knuckles.

She can feel herself drawing nearer, her eyes drinking in the sight of Santana's face falling slack with anticipation, the way the other girl's eyes flit from her lips to her eyes then back again.

And just when she's about to make that first contact-

_SCREECH!_

"Oops," some big-lipped blonde boy on stage is saying, grinning out guiltily at the audience as he rights his previously fallen microphone. "Sorry," he mumbles into it.

"It's okay," someone yells from the audience. "We still love you Sammy!"

"Sorry boys, Sammy's taken."

"Oh shit, it's the little midget loudmouth girl," Tina shouts, looking on as the girl who'd given her all the information earlier struts out on stage.

She doesn't look anything like Brittany remembers Tina telling her she did though.

"What's up Cleveland?!" the girl shouts into her mic, taking center stage. She lets everyone get the cheering out of their systems before settling into her first prelude.

"So, I know introductions are probably not necessary in this part of town but I'm Rachel and we're The Crackle and we're here to celebrate our pride," the girl, Rachel, says, pausing again for the audience to react.

"Hey, it sucks that the rest of the world hasn't quite caught up yet but at least right here and right now we all know that something as beautiful as love can never be wrong. Ain't that right, Sammy?!"

"You said it, Rachel," the blonde boy, now brandishing a guitar says. "I say we uh, get this party started. Ya'll ready?! Kick it in Ryder."

The other guy on the drums, kicks in a bass beat and soon they all tear off into a song that's probably about something pretty like first loves and first dates and all of that other stuff but Brittany's kind of preoccupied with something else now because Santana pretty much started kissing her the minute Rachel started talking.

The force of it has Brittany rocking back a little, but she's not planning on breaking it for anything, not with the way Santana's hands are slipping into her hair, her fingers scratching delicately at the base of her scalp.

"Oh god," Santana whispers, pulling away once her brain finally catches up to her body. "I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what came over-"

"I don't care," Brittany breathes, lowering her head to capture Santana's lips again. Their noses kind of press together weirdly with the new angle, but Santana doesn't mind, especially when Brittany's hands slip over her hips, her long fingers gripping at her sides like it's the only thing she's capable of doing.

There's cheering, and she knows who it is probably – mostly Puck – but none of it matters, none of it at all.

Only Brittany.

Only them.

Brittany walks them backwards until Santana's pressed up against the wall the platform's mounted to, and Santana's never been so infinitely grateful for a vertical surface before. Her knees were getting weaker by the second.

Brittany's mouth slides away from hers with a solid pop, her warm and sticky lips leaving a trail of kisses down her chin and along the column of her neck. "Santana?" she murmurs.

"Huh?" Santana barely manages to answer back.

"Are you okay?"

She's absolutely okay.

Confused at the question, Santana frowns, her eyes still closed. "I'm fine."

"Oh," Brittany hums, sucking at the skin fluttering over Santana's pulse point. "I'm only asking because your heart feels like it's about to pop out or something."

Her teeth scrape over Santana's neck and yeah, Santana maybe is going into cardiac arrest.

"I've never, um–"

"Kissed a girl before?" Brittany guesses, stopping everything and pulling up to look Santana in the eye.

The smaller girl gulps.

"Lemme guess," Brittany continues, studying her, "You've never done anything with a girl before."

Santana grimaces, nodding nearly imperceptibly.

She's sure Brittany's going to stop now, going to pull away completely and accuse her of being one of those experimenting semi-straight girls just looking to make their boy-toy of the week jealous but Brittany's doesn't do anything but shrug.

"Thought so," she murmurs, instantly leaning back in to work on another hickey.

Hey, wait.

"Hold up," Santana says, forcing Brittany away. "You don't care?"

"You like kissing me right?" When Santana just blushes, Brittany smirks. "Right. So, no problem."

"But, like…I mean-"

"Look, when – not if – we get down to the interesting lady sex, I'll teach you some stuff. And then you could always do some research."

Santana laughs, though she's more shocked than anything.

"I like you, Santana. I don't care if you've been gay since Rainbow Brite or if you just figured out that boobs are more than just chest pillows. It doesn't matter because I like you and I want to kiss you and eventually have sex with you," Brittany says, matter-of- factly. "You can't argue with that."

And, no.

Santana really can't.

So, she just settles for kissing Brittany again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Following Fall<strong>_

"Will you chill the hell out Lopez, you're making me dizzy already."

Santana ignores the voice coming from her MacBook and sets the stuffed penguin Brittany won at the Halloween fair for her on her desk, then to the right of her pillow, then to the left of her pillow.

"I'm with Puck on this one, S. Brittany's seen your room like a million times already," Mercedes calls out, absently peering into her screen as she folds some clothes.

"Okay, both of you," Santana says, glaring at the monitor. "Shut it. I have less than ten minutes to make sure that my room is 100 percent perfect for Brittz before she gets here and you're distracting me," she says, lunging for a shoe that's barely sticking out from under her bed.

"Then why'd you answer the damn Skype call?"

Santana straightens up again, staring down at her computer quizzically. "Good point," she mutters, slamming the lid closed without much of a second thought.

She's so frantic in her scurry to tidy the completely kept room that she doesn't notice the door creak open or the light tread scampering up behind her, but she does nearly leap out of her skin when two strong and instantly familiar arms wrap around her waist.

"Honey," Brittany breathes, squeezing her tight and Santana grins happily before turning around in her arms.

Brittany looks the same as the last time she saw her a few short weeks ago, just a little more tan, a little blonder, and a lot more mischievous.

"I missed you," Santana whispers, draping her arms around Brittany's neck. Her girlfriend's wearing a tank top and the absolute shortest shorts ever – it's a good look.

"How much?" Brittany says, popping an eyebrow.

Santana breaks away from her a moment, letting her hands drift down Brittany's arms to entangle them with their counterparts. She moves them over to the door, peering down the hallway in either direction before closing and locking it.

"I did some research," Santana says, moving so that her body is pinning Brittany's to the door. She drags her hands down Brittany's sides until they settle at the low waistline of her shorts.

Brittany's lips twitch at the corners with a smile that's already glowing in her eyes. "Do tell."

"Nah," Santana says, shaking her head as she pops the button on Brittany's fly. She kisses the taller girl on the chin, leaning up on her toes to do so. "Showing's much better than telling."

She drops back down and Brittany watches her go lower and lower and lower...


	42. New Year's Eve

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Okay, this one could also be called the story in which they always ask about a goddamn boyfriend and are always at or going to a party. *Shrugs* I'm not perfect. _Anyway_, this one's taken me a long time to write (note the title) and it's not been beta'd so all those typos are mine, oh mine. The lyrics in the following are from Adele's _One and Only _(which I've never heard, by the way) and _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_. Thanks for reading and waiting and being super patient with me. So, what are you all up to? Drop me a PM or review and let me know. I'm interested. Happy Thursday!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ringing In The New Year<strong>_

Santana has this policy.

You see, she doesn't usually date anyone around the holidays.

Actually, she doesn't date anyone in general but on the occasion she does manage to be tied down to someone she makes sure it's over before the next major holiday.

She's not like emotionally inept or anything but being in a relationship during the holidays complicates things. For example, the two-week fling she was in that _could_ turn into something more crashes and burns because the girl got the wrong idea when they went to Santana's parents' house together for Thanksgiving.

She thought it meant they were serious when really Santana just didn't want to pass up on her abuela's kick-ass cooking.

And then there's the gift-giving thing.

It's not that she's _bad_ at it.

It's just that she's logical and practical.

If her girlfriend keeps complaining about a broken coffeemaker then that's what she's gonna buy.

Who _cares _if it's not romantic enough for an anniversary present?

Anyway, this is why she goes out of her way to make sure she's single for most of the major couple-y holidays.

And so far, the plan's been working to perfection.

And then, well, and then _this_ happened.

* * *

><p>"Hey Mamma," Mercedes says, shimmying as she makes her way over to her and Santana can't hold back her laugh.<p>

Her childhood friend always gets goofy when she gets a little liquor in her.

"I ain't your mamma, crazy ass," she says with a grin, accepting Mercedes' warm, exuberant hug.

"Stop cussing," Mercedes grumbles lightly, pulling away. "You always be cussin' and shit. Oops."

Mercedes dissolves into cackling laughter and Santana rolls her eyes, amused. "Question for you: who are all these people? Don't tell me Mr. Ab-ulous has all these friends."

"I'll have you know that my Sammy has plenty of friends," Mercedes tells her, hands on her hips.

Santana gives it a moment or two. "All of these guys on the rugby team?"

"Every last one of them," Mercedes answers and they both laugh, bumping into one another.

A loud cheer erupts from the doorway and Santana can barely make out the crown of a blonde head before Mercedes is yanking her away to the center of the living room-slash-dance floor.

"What the hell's going on over there?" Santana asks her friend, still trying to see through and over the swarm of people.

Mercedes just shrugs. "Girl, I don't care. This is my jam," she says, tossing her hair from side to side to the beat.

LMFAO's _Sorry For Party Rocking _is drowning out the majority of the party noise but not enough for Santana not to hear the beginning rumblings of a chant.

"Brittany-Brittany-Brittany," starts the low repetitive drone, the sound and accompanying clapping getting louder and louder until it seemingly surrounds her, the whole room buzzing with anticipation so palpable that the tiny hairs on her arm stand at attention.

There's a break in the music, just before the first verse, and the crowd parts just in front of her, a bunch of the rugby boys moving to clear out a circle in the center of the room.

Santana backs up, curious as to what's about to happen as she peers over Nathan's – one of the few rugby guys she recognizes – shoulder, only catching glances.

"Mercedes," she says, nudging her still swaying friend, "The music's stopped."

"Is it the New Year yet?" Mercedes asks, slurring a little.

"When you finish that," Santana says, motioning to the solo cup Mercedes is clutching, "I'm cutting you off."

"Party pooper," Mercedes grumbles, blowing a raspberry at her and then chuckling because, "That tickles."

Santana smiles, amused as ever at her friend but then Nathan shifts and the scattered glimpses finally form a solid picture.

Standing dead center of the circle, wearing black leggings, Fusion pink Air Flight 89s, and a white tank top that reads "Classy, Sassy, and a Bit Smart Assy" is a dead-sexy, fucking gorgeous girl, poised and ready to either kill them all with her hotness or take over the world.

Actually, Santana's pretty sure she could do both.

"Alright," the girl says, smirking as she looks over the circle surrounding her, "You guys got me out here. Where's my music?"

"Drop that shit again," Nathan yells, getting in her way and Santana squeezes in beside him to prevent it from happening again.

Good thing too because the music starts up once more and her eyes bear witness to a spectacle only second (_possibly_ second) to Beyoncé's Super Bowl performance.

This girl is incredible.

And that's putting it lightly.

How else can you explain a pirouette excellently pulled off in the middle of a LMFAO song?

Everyone around her is thrumming, their emphatic shouts and exuberance spurring the blonde – Brittany, she guesses – on as she whips around the room.

Santana watches enthralled as she tosses her weight around with abandon, the bass living in the shake of her hips and the curve of her spine. And, at one point, just before the final chorus, Brittany comes to a dead standstill (and Santana's swears she's looking right at her). Santana blinks, gaping and Brittany breaks out of her dance trance, at least for a second, her lips tugging up at the right corner as she winks, then the chorus drops and so does Brittany, right into a split.

Santana almost dies on the spot.

* * *

><p>"Who the hell is that girl?"<p>

Sam looks up at Santana from where he's sitting on the couch, trying to coax his girlfriend into a more alert state.

After the impromptu performance, Blondie mysteriously disappeared before Santana could get the chance to talk to her which might have been a good move considering Santana's severe need for a cool down period immediately after said performance.

Anyway, she's spent the better part of the last half hour looking for her – and yeah, she could have just asked a bunch of randoms about her but that always presents the possibility of asking someone who knows Blondie directly and having that person let the girl know in advance that Santana was at the very least interested in talking to her and then she'd look desperate and the last thing she wants to do is come across as desperate at a New Year's Eve party.

So she grabbed her sloppily drunk gal pal and found Sam, the only guy here she knows well enough to threaten as a tactic for keeping her inquiries to himself.

"Who are you talking about?" he asks, smiling when Mercedes mumbles something incoherent.

"Uh, the girl that just set the place on fire? The one that literally dropped it like it was hot? Does she ring a bell at all?"

"What are you talking about? Mercedes is right here," he answers with a grin and a kiss to his girl's cheek.

"You two really sicken me at times."

"Her name is Brittany," Sam supplies with a shrug. "And, I dunno, she's Mike's best friend… or girlfriend…."

"Wait," Santana balks, catching something in her peripheral eyesight, "Quick: which one is it?"

Sam crosses his eyes in thought before shrugging again. "I honestly don't remember."

"Ugh," Santana grumbles, adjusting the top she's wearing so that it optimizes her assets. "You are so useless. And if I crash and burn so will all your ziploc'd comics you think are safely hidden in Mercedes's closet."

She ignores his squeak, quickly moving through the fray in the direction in which she's just seen the now familiar flash of blonde hair go but before she can round the corner she's face to face with an Asian.

"Heeeeey!" the guy says, much too loudly and much too enthusiastically considering she doesn't know him.

He's a little sloppy with the delivery, the clear drink in his hand is evidently _not_ Sprite, and yet she's oddly fixated with the streak of red in his hair.

"I'm sorry Rufio but I don't have time for you."

"Ha," the guy laughs loudly, though not annoyingly. "That's funny. You're a funny girl." He takes a sip of his drink, and she takes a moment to appreciate that for a drunken guy who's so very obviously trying to hit on her, he's still respectfully keeping his distance.

"You're a pretty girl too," he adds, after swallowing the liquor down.

"Uh huh," Santana says, amused more than bothered. "Look, you seem like a nice guy…" she prompts.

"Mike," the guy supplies after a twenty second delay.

Santana narrows her eyes. She couldn't be this lucky could she?

"Mike, huh?" she says. "You wouldn't happen to be Brittany's Mike, would you?"

"Yeah," he says, his loopy eyes lighting up, "That's totally me. I'm Brittany's Mike."

"So you're Brittany's…boyfriend?" Santana asks cautiously, her voice skirting upward an octave or two.

"_Whaaaaaat_? Brittany's boyfriend?" he echoes, his own voice going higher. "_Nah_, I'm not anybody's boyfriend."

He's got this cute look on his face but he's _so_ barking up the wrong tree. Santana needs to set him straight once and for all.

"Mike, sorry to have to tell you this but-"

"Hey, is Mikey bothering you?"

There's a comfortable weight draped across her shoulders and Santana starts at the neon colored fingernails before snapping her head to the right to find Brittany, the blonde bombshell herself, grinning down at her while waiting for an answer.

"Britt!" Mike yells, apparently super glad to see his friend. "I was talking to this girl 'cause it's New Year's – the American one, not the rat one – and I feel awesome. Isn't she pretty?"

Brittany giggles and Santana wants to face-palm with embarrassment but she refrains, especially when Brittany's fingers brush against her arm and a quiet "Totally" seeps into her ear.

Santana smiles back at Brittany, really wishing that Mike would take his leave and Brittany must think so too because she turns her attention back to the guy.

"Hey Mikey, you know what would be totally chill to do right now?"

Mike shakes his head.

"You should for realz fetch, what's your name?" Brittany asks her.

"Santana."

"Cute," Brittany comments. "Yeah, Mike, you should get Santana a drink."

"Shit," Mike curses, slapping his head with the cup carrying hand so it sloshes on his hair a little. "You're so right, Britt. 'Kay, I'll be right back," he tells them, holding out his hands in a stay put gesture. "Don't go anywhere."

Santana watches him disappear, ready to start her one on one with Brittany but the other girl doesn't seem to have the same idea as she pulls away from Santana.

"Okay. You're safe to take off now," the blonde says, smiling at her. "I'll try to keep Mikey out of your hair but you're on your own if you get hemmed up again."

"Wait, where are you going?" Santana asks, panicking a bit as Brittany starts walking away.

"I was just gonna-" Brittany starts, then stops. "Why you wanna know?" she asks, although purrs would be a better description.

"I saw you dancing," Santana says, gaining a little momentum as she ignores Brittany's question.

"Oh yeah?" Brittany's eyebrow raises and Santana nods. "Did you and your boyfriend enjoy the show?"

"Ha," Santana laughs freely, pleased at finding her in. "There is _no _boyfriend." She leans on that no, inflecting as much implication into the term so as to leave nothing up to misinterpretation. And, judging by the way Brittany's eyes spark in recognition, the message is received loud and clear.

"Girlfriend, then?" Brittany asks, shrugging coolly.

"If I had one of those I'm sure she'd have loved it but I'm decidedly single these days."

Brittany nods, "This is good to know."

"What about you?" Santana asks. "Where's your girlfriend?"

"If I had a girlfriend," Brittany says, allowing her eyes to roam up and down Santana's frame, "I wouldn't even be allowed to look at you, let alone talk to you. You're hot shit Santana."

Santana lets loose a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

She's not in denial; the sheer unexpectedness and matter-of-fact delivery are what catches her off-guard.

She knows what Brittany is saying is true.

Santana's feeling slightly off her game, which isn't exactly bad, it actually feels pretty good in a weird way.

She wants to be her usual silky smooth self, dropping line after line at Brittany's feet until the other girl is literally in her hands but tonight she's being bested at her own game.

However, something's telling her that losing might be just as good as winning tonight.

"Hey, you wanna go somewhere else?" Brittany asks, breaking her silent contemplation. "Dancing always tends to make me…"

"Hot?" Santana offers.

"I was gonna say horny," Brittany says, smiling devilishly. "But we can go with that."

* * *

><p>She wasn't exactly planning on bringing in the New Year with a bang but hey when life gives you lemons or, in this case, a sizzling hot girl with a banging body and long, talented fingers…<p>

"You're kind of loud," Brittany's voice muffles out against her chest.

She's got to be working on hickey number three or four hundred, and, in this dark coat closet that Santana knows isn't soundproof, Brittany's words should spark some concern.

But Santana's mind isn't too particularly bothered with that, what with Brittany's fingers wreaking all kinds of delicious havoc.

"Are you complaining?" Santana pants out, her head falling back against the closet wall.

"No way. I like hearing you," Brittany whispers, straining just a bit to keep Santana upright. "Lets me know what I'm doing right."

Santana gasps a little as Brittany picks up the pace a bit. "I…don't think…you could do it…wrong. Fuuuck."

"It's almost midnight," Brittany says, licking a trail up to Santana's ear before whispering hotly against it. "Think I can make you come before the New Year does?"

Santana can feel her shifting, can feel Brittany maneuvering them so that they're now lying on the closet floor, coats and stray clothing the only cushion.

Now, being able to put her weight behind it, every push and pull is sending Santana spiraling towards the edge; in the nether recesses of her mind she's vaguely aware of hearing a countdown start.

"_Twenty!"_

"Santana," Brittany husks, nudging her nose against her cheek and Santana blindly turns toward her, eyes squeezed shut.

"_Seventeen!"_

"Santana, look at me," Brittany tells her and instantly she screws her eyes open.

"_Twelve!"_

Brittany watches her, her fingers still plunging into her rapidly, the warm, wet sounds nearly drowning out the sound of their quickened breathing.

"_Eight!"_

Brittany kisses her nose, pulling back and looking at Santana so intensely that it takes her breath away.

"Four!"

"Come for me, Santana," Brittany murmurs, her fingers curling expertly and hitting that spot that makes Santana break in the best way every.

Damn.

Time.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she says over and over again, her eyes falling closed again and her body convulsing almost violently as her orgasm washes over her.

Distantly, she hears the muted chorus of "Happy New Year!"

"I did it," Brittany whispers, loudly kissing her face. "Yay me!"

Santana's still trembling a little but she cracks a smile, jumping a bit when Brittany extracts her fingers.

She watches with lidded eyes as Brittany brings them to her mouth, not even hesitating before licking them dry.

"Mmm," she says, her eyes twinkling, "tastes like victory."

Santana bites her lip, her skin feeling hot all over as she dives at Brittany's lips, kissing her with everything she has, more than willing to return the favor.

Twice.

* * *

><p>Hours later (after she shouted down the house at some idiot who had the nerve to try to retrieve his bomber jacket) and she and Brittany are still in the closet.<p>

She's draped along Brittany's side, clutching the girl's right hand and tracing the lines etched along her palm. Her head is tucked in just under the blonde's chin as Brittany intermittently runs her free hand through Santana's hair.

"I think this year is starting out pretty good," Brittany says, disturbing their quiet.

Santana grins against Brittany's neck, sitting up a little as Brittany shifts to look down at her.

"Yeah?" she asks, awed at how hopeful her own voice sounds.

"Yeah," Brittany says, leaning down to kiss her again.

* * *

><p>Santana doesn't usually date anyone around the holidays.<p>

It's a good thing she's got a couple of months 'til the next one then.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Feliz Año Nuevo<strong>_

"Welcome, welcome," the pretty lady greets, opening the door to the large house.

Brittany and her little sister had marveled at its size as they walked up the cleared driveway but now that they're inside, that awed feeling settles in just a bit more.

"Thanks for having us, Maribel," Brittany's dad says, sloughing his coat as a suited man offers to take it for him.

"Of course, Richard," the lady says, waving him off. "We're neighbors now and it's the neighborly thing to do."

"Your home is gorgeous," Brittany's mom proclaims, following their new neighbor into the already in gear party. "All these lights are so pretty."

Brittany looks around at all the different adults, all dressed in their Sunday best and drinking what looked like gilded, sparkling water from long-stemmed flutes.

"Oh, well, you can blame Hector for that. And the fact that he takes forever to take down the Christmas decorations," Maribel laughs conspiratorially, entering the main living area. "Now, it's Brittany and Jamie, right?" she asks, gesturing to the girls. "Do you two want to stay down here with the adults or go up to Santana's room?"

Jamie tucks herself closer to their mom's leg but Brittany just stares up at the older lady. "Who's Santana?"

"She's my daughter and I'm pretty sure your mom told me you two were the same age," the lady answers, booping Brittany on the nose. "Now, where is she?" she asks herself, straightening up. "Santana!"

A few moments later, a girl with dark hair and dark eyes, emerges at the top of the stairs, a bored look plastered on her face. "Yes, Mother?" she answers.

Maribel smiles tightly. "Why don't you take little Brittany up to your room so she won't be bored with the adults?"

Santana, wearing a black dress adorned with gold ribbons, peers down and around her mother until she's looking at Brittany, scrutinizing.

Brittany's never felt more intimidated in her previous thirteen years of existence.

"Whatever," Santana says, turning and heading back up the stairs without suggesting Brittany follow.

"Go ahead, hon," Santana's mother tells her, nudging her in the direction of the stairs. "It's fine."

Brittany climbs the stairs slowly, her hands grabbing nervously at the hem of her yellow party dress. When she reaches the top there's nowhere to turn but to her right (left?), down a dimly lit hallway. While all the doors lining the space are closed, there's just one, near the end, that's cracked open, a little light spilling across the carpet hallway runner.

Keeping her steps light and careful not to trip in her new dress shoes, seeing as she's not accustomed to the higher heel, Brittany makes her way to the door and cautiously raps her fingers against it, hoping she's being wise in her decision.

"Okay, you," the girl from before says, suddenly appearing in the sliver of doorway and narrowing her eyes at Brittany, "Let me lay down some rules. There is to be no touching of my stuff. I don't like to share. And if you're a crybaby, you might as well turn and run now, there's a no-wuss rule for my room. I'm watching a scary movie so if you're not into those then tough. And I don't like to talk…at all. Like, actually, maybe you should just not say anything."

Brittany, too shocked to do anything else, just nods.

The other girl's lips tick up in a bit of a smile.

"Cool."

* * *

><p>It takes all of two minutes for Brittany to think this whole night is a big mistake.<p>

Santana, the girl who's room she's in, seems completely content to ignore her and considering they've got more than two hours left until midnight she doesn't see an end in sight for this boredom.

She wouldn't be as bored, she guesses, if Santana'd actually let her listen to some music, or hop on the internet, or do anything but Santana's actually a big meanie Brittany's decided and so she has to just sit there and pray for her mom or dad to come rescue her.

"Oh, this is getting good," Santana chuckles, watching the drama unfold on her laptop screen, "Liv Tyler is totally gonna eat it."

Brittany doesn't very much like this movie – with the creepy masked people and its oppressive darkness – so she's been doing her best to ignore but when the giant guy with the burlap sack over his head shoves the lady against the wall, she can't help the squeak she lets out.

She squints her eyes closed hard and covers her ears, hoping to drown away any of the scary sounds, but very suddenly there are hands covering her own, gently pulling them away from the sides of her head.

Brittany blinks, surprised at Santana's close proximity – before she was seated on the floor, leaned back against Santana's bed while the other girl reclined atop it happily – and Santana backs up a bit, biting her lower lip.

"Why didn't you tell me it was too scary?" she asks, accusatory, but gentle all the same.

"You told me I couldn't talk," Brittany tells her, keeping her voice flat and the anger out of it.

Santana rolls her eyes. "I was being a bitch. I do that from time to time. Especially when my parents try to make me make friends," she explains, quickly and to the point. "I can handle that shit on my own thank you very much."

"You said two swears," Brittany states, her eyes getting wide. "The moral police are gonna swoop in at any moment now."

Santana looks at her oddly – a look Brittany wishes she wasn't accustomed to seeing – but she just smiles. "They're just words," she smirks.

"Yeah, bad ones."

"Oh, come on Brittany," Santana says, "Do you really think that a couple of colorful words are as bad as, I don't know, committing a murder?"

Brittany frowns. "Well no, but-"

"Then there you have it," Santana says, matter-of-factly, getting to her feet and slamming her laptop closed. "Look, you can't be scared of stuff all the time, alright? 'Cause the coolest stuff, sometimes, is the stuff that scares you the most."

Brittany lets that sink in, still wary, but Santana just laughs at her before grabbing her hand and tugging her up. "Come on."

"Where are we goin'?"

Santana's grin turns wicked. "You'll see."

* * *

><p>"Okay," Santana says, peeking around the corner carefully like an undercover spy. "I'll distract the ones in front of the table and you sneak the glasses alright?"<p>

Brittany bites her lip, still mostly uncomfortable with this plan, even though she's super-glad Santana's actually interacting with her now. "What if we get caught?" she asks, worriedly.

Santana winks at her. "That's what makes it fun."

With one last furtive glance, Santana walks into the room full of adults, calling them all to attention.

"Hello, everyone. My parents totally don't know about this but I couldn't pass on the opportunity to perform in front of a live, non-related audience," Santana says, promptly earning the attention of all the adults in the room, including the servers.

Brittany creeps out from her hiding place, tiptoeing across the carpet until she's standing in front of the refreshments table, being the exact opposite of subtle as she looks for the most-filled champagne flutes.

She's about to make her move, finding a perfect pair sitting right next to one another, but then Santana starts to sing and she promptly forgets what she's supposed to be doing.

_God rest ye merry, gentlemen _

_Let nothing you dismay _

_Remember, Christ, our Savior _

_Was born on Christmas day _

_To save us all from Satan's power _

_When we were gone astray _

_O tidings of comfort and joy, _

_Comfort and joy _

_O tidings of comfort and joy…_

It's a little late for a Christmas song, seeing as the New Year is just over an hour away, but no one seems to mind. Brittany most certainly doesn't, staring at Santana as if she's in a trance.

It's only when she slumps back a little, knocking into the table and causing the glasses to clink together just slightly, that she comes back to her senses.

Quickly, she grabs the two she'd eyed earlier and scampers back into the hallway and up the stairs, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

Though, she's not entirely certain it's only from the thrill of potentially being caught.

* * *

><p>"Did you get it?" Santana asks, closing the bedroom door behind her and kicking off her shoes.<p>

Brittany nods with a wide grin, gesturing to the two glasses sitting on Santana's nightstand.

"Way to go, Britt," Santana laughs, joining Brittany on the bed with a flop. "We make a pretty decent team," she adds with a smug smile, reaching for one glass and then the other, handing the latter to Brittany.

Brittany smiles shyly, taking the glass away, feeling warmer than she's felt all evening. "Thanks," she murmurs bashfully, her eyes falling to look at her lap.

Santana sips freely from her glass, smacking her lips a little but Brittany doesn't dare do the same, instead holding the flute delicately between her fingers.

"You aren't gonna drink it?"

"We're not supposed to," is out of Brittany's mouth before she can stop it and she frowns, instantly upset with herself for looking uncool, yet again.

But maybe Santana's kind of warming up to her because instead of laughing at her, something Brittany is sure she'd have done a few short hours ago, Santana just shifts on the bed so that she's cross-legged and facing Brittany.

"I thought we've already addressed this breaking rules thing," the other girl tells her with a gentle smile.

She nudges Brittany's glass up. "Just take a little sip."

Brittany shakes her head with a rueful chuckle, bringing the glass up the rest of the way. The champagne bubbles tickle her nose as she takes a tiny sip of the alcohol, barely even tasting it...but then there's a hand covering her own, tipping the glass up further.

Brittany's eyes widen as she splutters, gulping down much more than she'd intended and it burns – oh God, does it burn – but it's somehow worth the brief pain when her watery eyes capture the blurred image of a giggling Santana.

"You asshole," Brittany wheezes, putting her glass down before attacking Santana's ribs with her nimble fingers, laughing along when Santana chuckles so hard she can't breathe.

"You," Santana gasps out between a series of snorts and giggles, "you said a bad word."

"Breaking rules," Brittany singsongs, not relenting, "Breaking rules."

* * *

><p>Two more glasses apiece finds Brittany out of her shoes and the two girls jumping on Santana's bed, oblivious to the happenings downstairs.<p>

"This is so much fun!" Santana yells, her voice warring with the music warbling out of her boom box.

"I know," Brittany yells back, still dancing.

It's the radio station's top one-hundred songs of the year countdown so there are no commercial breaks, no boring chat sessions, just endless tunes. Brittany's nearly delirious with glee as she twirls and shimmies and shakes along the surface of Santana's bed.

"You're a good dancer," Santana comments, catching Brittany around the waist in a loose embrace.

Brittany grabs Santana's arms for balance then jumps to the floor, taking the other girl along with her, spinning Santana out before twirling her back into her arms.

"And you're a much better dance partner than Tubbs."

"Who's Tubbs?" Santana asks when Brittany twirls her out again. "Your boyfriend?"

"No," Brittany answers, bringing her back in until they're face to face, her right hand falling to Santana's back. "He's just my cat."

Santana hums, looking down, Brittany thinks, to count out the dance steps but then she asks, her grip on Brittany's hand tightening a little. "Do you _have_ a boyfriend?"

Brittany laughs for some reason, the question silly and making her nervous all at once.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Do you?" she asks, dipping Santana like she's seen in the movies and completely catching the girl off-guard if the way Santana's hands scramble to wrap around her waist and the back of her neck are any indication.

Brittany giggles a bit, staring down at Santana but now the other girl is looking at her oddly, almost like she wants to send the champagne up through airmail.

But she doesn't.

Brittany sees and feels Santana's "no" more than she hears it and, just when she's about to ask the suddenly pensive Santana what's wrong or why does she look so serious all of the sudden, the hand on her neck shifts, the fingers splaying wide as Santana surges up, bumping her lips against Brittany's in a kiss so fumbling, so unexpected that Brittany nearly drops her.

Nearly, but she doesn't.

As it is, Brittany's seemingly startled into inaction; unable to move a muscle except for her brain that keeps repeating "This feels good. This feels good," over and over.

But a one-way kiss can't feel that good to the person doing all the work so its no surprise that Santana pulls away first.

"I'm so sorry," she breathes when they're separated again. "I don't know why I did that. I just…and you were just…" Santana stammers, helpless, her eyes literally glazing over with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry, Brittany. Please don't hate me."

Brittany gulps, her body falling back under her command again, but she's still got that one track thought thing going on. "Um…" she manages to say after a pregnant silence.

Santana looks at her desperately, biting her lip in anxious anticipation of what Brittany's going to say but Brittany only shrugs, giving into what her mind – and body – both want.

Santana gasps when Brittany gently lowers her the rest of the way to the floor but she doesn't have time to do much else before Brittany's leaning down over her and planting one hell of a return kiss on her.

* * *

><p>"Girls!"<p>

Brittany and Santana spring away from each other like snapped rubber bands, their lips red and hair all over the place.

"That's your mom," Brittany whispers, still in a daze and breathless.

Santana smooths down her hair before clamoring to her feet. "Uh huh," she says, swallowing thickly. "Uh, I should go see what she wants."

"Wait," Brittany says before she goes, looking up at her shyly from the floor. "Can't I come too?"

Santana grins, becoming bashful as well before holding her hand up, laughing when Brittany tugs way too hard to get up.

"Yeah Mami," Santana says, leaning over the railing and Brittany does as well, just in time to see Santana's mom frowning up at the pair of them.

"Don't say 'yeah', Santana," she says, "It's unlady-like. And you and Brittany should come down now. It's almost midnight."

Brittany squeaks in protest, about to hint subtly to Santana that 'no, they really shouldn't' but Santana beats her to the punch.

"I think we like the party up here _way _better, Mom," she says, reaching for Brittany's hand; Brittany accepts it with a smile.

"Are you sure?" Maribel asks, waving her flute at them. "We'll let you try the champagne," she coaxes.

Brittany giggles, leaning against Santana playfully. "Yeah-I mean, yes. We're good."

Maribel shrugs as if to say 'your loss' before turning back to her own party, leaving the girls at peace once again.

Laughing all the way, Brittany drags Santana back to her room, closing the door behind them both.

"I think you're a little bit drunk," Santana comments, watching Brittany fall back onto her bed.

Brittany points at her. "You are too."

Santana slowly makes her way over to the bed, arms crossed and Brittany sits up on her elbows to watch her approach.

"So…is that why you're kissing me?" she asks, her tone and face careful.

Brittany swallows, sitting up until her legs are falling over the side of the bed, neatly bracketing Santana's legs. "Nope," she says, simply.

Santana tries not to smile. "It's not?"

"Nah," Brittany says, throwing her hand at the notion.

"Then why are you?" Santana challenges, still keeping her hands to herself.

"I don't know really," Brittany says, speaking honestly. "Maybe it's 'cause I'm happy. Maybe it's 'cause it's New Year's. Maybe it's 'cause you're really pretty and cute and got me to steal champagne for the first time." She shrugs. "I honestly don't know. But, if I had to pick a reason," she says, squinting up her face like she's trying to pinpoint it, "I think it's 'cause I really, really like you."

Santana, whose smile had been growing the whole time, finally full-on beams at Brittany before unfurling her arms and settling them on Brittany's shoulders. "Well, that's good. 'Cause I really, really like you, too."

* * *

><p><em><strong>In With The New<strong>_

"Oh God," Brittany gasps, her hands slapping back against the side of the beach house.

They're outside, still, and she's still mostly clothed and Brittany's so surprised that she's having what has to be the best sex of her young life and she's no where near close to naked.

Turning her head, she finds lips – plump, soft, and sweetened – and meets them with her own, the same hand she'd been rhythmically slapping against the siding reaching up to tangle into hair still damp with ocean water.

She whimpers when that skilled tongue, the same one that'd been enchanting her all evening, traces a line along the roof of her mouth, the motion matching the careful stroke of a middle finger lower, their kiss turning messy, frantic the closer Brittany edges toward orgasm.

"You're so wet," the girl whispers out, breathes would be a better description and Brittany thinks she gets ten times wetter just hearing the words.

She's close, so very close, and desperate for release but their quick pace slows considerably when the girl pulls back, Brittany's hips rutting against the phantom of her touch.

"No," Brittany whines, her eyes opening as she prepares to either curse or…she doesn't know what.

"Don't worry, baby," the girl says, planting a quick, wet kiss to the corner of Brittany's mouth, "I'm gonna make you feel so good."

Brittany gulps, her eyes tracking the slow decent of the girl down the front of her body in the darkness. Nimble fingers work apart the button and fly of her shorts before they're roughly tugged down, leaving Brittany mostly uncomfortably wet and wearing only her underwear.

The night beach air wafts across her skin but the shudder she gives isn't because of the cold, it's because the girl on her knees before her slides the fabric of her panties to the side before pressing the tiniest of kisses right there.

"F-f-f-uck," Brittany shudders out, her spine buckling and her torso tilting forward, but the girl tugs her legs too, tilting Brittany in a way that has her leaning against the structure for support.

That tongue, that tongue is the devil Brittany's sure because this feeling has _got_ to be a sin.

She's unrelenting, determined, and Brittany's never been more grateful for the thumping music inside, the crashing waves, and the cover of night because the sounds she's making are past pornographic.

It's loud in her head, the blood rushing against her eardrums and her very existence seemingly hinging upon the moment when she unravels, when she comes undone.

The tiniest scrape is what finally sends her over, her body going as taut and as round as a bow with her orgasm, hovering there for a moment before coming back down, almost violently shuddering with the aftershock.

She swears she can hear fireworks in the distance.

The girl doesn't exactly let up either, steadily lapping at her until Brittany is forced to weakly push her away.

The girl chuckles, sitting back on her haunches as she glides her hands up Brittany's still trembling thighs, resting them at last on Brittany's ass. "Feel good?"

Brittany tries to catch her breath. She feels like she's just run a marathon, her muscles turning to jelly. Barely, feebly, she tilts her head forward in a nod, looking down at her through lidded eyes.

The girl goes to stand, never breaking contact with Brittany's skin or Brittany's eyes as she rises. When she's at her full height, still inches shorter than Brittany, she kisses her, letting Brittany acquaint herself to her own flavor.

"Wanna feel it again?"

* * *

><p>Brittany's never been an early riser.<p>

As a child, her mother usually had to pry her out of bed and, on the occasions that didn't work, sometimes she'd spray her with ice water.

But Brittany's usually exceptionally great at sleeping through virtually anything, so the fact that a seagull's cry actually stirs her awake is a bit of a small miracle.

However, she also may be really easy to wake this morning because the seagull's cry felt like a knitting needle in her brain thanks to the bitchin' hangover she's got.

Blaine, it seems, is a horrible right hand man as he was in charge of preventing this very thing from happening but, no dice.

Brittany groans, shifting as little as possible and keeping her eyes closed tightly to ward off the light.

"Look who's finally awake."

Brittany's eyes pop open, recognition and realization catching up to her quickly as her mind instantly recalls that voice.

She can't hold back the gasp.

The girl's – the one with the devilish tongue – eyes widen, reading Brittany's reaction. "I would've woken you up sooner," she explains, looking a little guilty. "But, I dunnno," she shrugs, smiling slyly. "I guess I have a weakness for pretty girls in my bed."

Brittany.

Is having.

A panic attack.

Or a hallucination.

Or maybe she's dreaming because what in the good ship lollipop?

"Are you late for an appointment or something?" the girl asks, still misinterpreting Brittany's reaction but Brittany's going to play it cool.

She can't exactly freak out on the girl with it taking two to tango and what not and, now that the images are flooding back, Brittany was definitely a more than willing participant.

Brittany swallows, trying to steady her nerves. "B-bathroom?" she stutters out.

The girl still looks worried but she nods, gesturing to the bedroom door. "Just across the hall."

* * *

><p>"<em>Brittany, you can't just stay locked up in her bathroom all day<em>."

"I know that, Blaine," Brittany whispers, cradling her head.

After an awkward exchange in which Brittany tried to slip her clothes back on while under a blanket, she's now locked in the girl's bathroom and trying to figure out what the hell happened.

"How much did I drink last night?"

"_You had like one completely virgin strawberry-rita_," Blaine answers.

"That cannot be true."

"_It totally is_," Blaine says, keeping his voice even. "_And then you started flirting with this girl from Delta house and that's the last time I saw you_."

Brittany gasps. "I did not. Blaine, I'm not…I don't….I'm not gay."

"_Well, I saw you with that girl last night and, gotta say, you might be just a_ little_ bit gay_."

"Blaine, this isn't funny."

"_And I'm not joking, Britt. Look, you obviously liked her on some level. You slept with her for crying out loud. And, for the record, I'm not buying this whole 'I don't remember any of it' excuse_."

Brittany's pause speaks volumes. "I don't."

"Right," Blaine says. "_Whatever will help you sleep at night. But, Britt, look, what you're doing now is wrong. We're in college, we're adults. Just go out there and be an adult. Tell her you're not interested_."

* * *

><p>When Brittany finally gathers up the nerve to get back across the hall, the girl has put a shirt back on, which should make things a lot easier but then she's still only wearing panties so…<p>

"Was that your boyfriend?"

Brittany's eyes dart up to find the girl looking at her, biting her lower lip anxiously and wringing her hands together. "Wh-what?"

"On the phone," the girl clarifies, still looking nervous, "Was that who you were talking to?"

"No…_no_," Brittany says vehemently, her need to get the ridiculous picture of Blaine being her _boyfriend _out of her head overriding her need to clarify things to the other girl.

"Oh," the girl breathes, looking relieved and sheepish as she approaches Brittany. "I…I don't mean to sound like 'that girl' but I hate it when straight girls play gay, you know?"

"Um," Brittany says, feeling awful. "Yeah," she says, hesitantly, feeling the girl's hands sliding around her waist. "Santana!" she yelps, the name floating to her forebrain.

The girl pulls back, a familiar smirk now painted across her lips, as she tilts her head. "I remember you saying that in a much different position."

Brittany's skin blooms like a rose but Santana only laughs.

* * *

><p>Brittany hugs her arms tighter around herself, looking out into the ocean as if it will suddenly provide her with all the answers.<p>

Like, what if Blaine has a point? What if she does…like girls?

What if everything she's ever known about herself turns out to not be true at all?

What if the universe had conspired, all her life, and its cosmic plans had finally come to fruition on a random new year's eve?

"You look very thinky," Santana comments, popping up in front of Brittany with their coffees. She takes a sip from hers before handing over Brittany's, smiling when she accepts it with a quiet thanks.

"I hope my sisters didn't freak you out or anything," she says, looking bashful. "I swear they're usually not that rowdy. It's probably just residual New Year's crazy."

Brittany shakes her head, trying and horribly failing to hold back a smile. Santana's Delta sisters were up and about the second time Brittany emerged from the bedroom and their 'coos' and 'hoots' weren't that amusing at first, but when she saw Santana's skin glowing in a bashful blush she found the humor in it.

"No, it was fine," Brittany says, taking a drink of her coffee. She feels like she's on the precipice of something, her body seemingly careening in one direction and she's unable to – or maybe she just doesn't want to – stop it. "So, I've been thinking…"

"Ah," Santana says, smiling cutely, "I knew you looked thinky."

Brittany smiles, her heart beating in her throat. "Maybe we could…I don't know…go out sometime?"

She looks past Santana as she says it, surprised really that the words even find their way out of her mouth but then Santana shifts over, brushing some of Brittany's hair out of her face so she's all Brittany can see.

"I'd really, really like that, Brittany," she says, her smile as gentle as her eyes and voice.

Brittany grins, really grins, feeling something inside of her unlock and open and fill her with an astounding warmth. She holds her coffee cup up, "To the new year," she toasts.

"To new beginnings," Santana echoes, accepting the toast.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lend Me Your Ear<strong>_

Ideally, Santana wouldn't be spending her New Year's Eve dragging a damp sponge across a dingy countertop.

But, also ideally, Santana would've totally gotten a gig as soon as she got to New York and wouldn't have had to work odd hours at a Starbucks just to maintain a roof over her head.

But, big dreams come with small sacrifices sometimes and sometimes those sacrifices come in the form of scraping old gum from the backs of chairs and scrubbing day-old coffee rings from creaky table tops.

It doesn't mean that she's given up on her big Broadway dreams. It just means that she's deferring them for a while.

In the meantime though, belting her lungs out into a broom handle makes for excellent practice.

… _I've been here before  
>Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all,<br>You'll never know if you never try  
>To forgive your past and simply be mine<em>

I dare you to let me be your, your one and only  
>Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms<br>So come on and give me the chance  
>To prove I am the one who can<br>Walk that mile until the end starts-

The jingling of the bell interrupts her more than the appearance of the other person…patron she guesses she should say.

"Um…" the woman asks, sniffling a little, "Are you still open?"

Now the sarcasm is right there, sitting on the edge of her tongue, but she chokes it back when her brain finally catches up to what she's seeing.

The woman is crying – or just got finished crying – and she looks so miserable that Santana just can't be …well, Santana.

"Yeah, we're open," she says, nodding slowly and setting the broom up against the nearby wall. "What can I get for you?" she asks, moving back behind the counter and washing her hands.

"Can I…" the woman's voice breaks a little. "Can I have tea?"

"Sure," Santana says softly, slipping on some gloves. "What kind?"

The woman blows forth a breath, leaning heavily against the counter. "I don't really care," she says through a sigh. "I'm not really having the best night."

Santana hesitates because a) it's not like she's insensitive or anything but she's not exactly like Oprah and b) this person is definitely a stranger and last time she checked, talking to strangers was still a big no-no.

But, this girl is all sad-looking and it's New Year's so it's still technically the holiday season and it's not like she has anything better to do.

Plus, like, the chick could totally say 'no'.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

* * *

><p>Chick didn't say 'no'.<p>

And it's not like Santana's regretting asking but now she kinda sorta wants to track down this person and inflict bodily harm on them because there's just something about a sad Brittany (that's the chick's name by the way) that doesn't sit right with her.

She feels like Brittany shouldn't ever be sad which is absolutely nuts because what the hell does she know? She's only just met her, but still…

"Anyway," Brittany starts, swirling her spoon around in her mug, "I'm sorry for putting all of this on you. And on New Year's Eve, too."

"No, seriously. It's not even an issue. Glad to oblige actually," Santana assures her, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "Besides, that guy's an asshole. Dumping you on New Year's Eve, plus, he's gotta be pretty stupid too because you seem really nice."

Brittany's got this weird look on her face – a cross between and smile and a sad frown – and her eyes dart around quickly before she shyly meets Santana's gaze. "It was a she."

Santana's confused. "Excuse me?"

"The 'guy'," Brittany finger-quotes, "He's a girl. I didn't have a boyfriend. I had a girlfriend. I'm gay."

"Oh," Santana says quietly, her chest feeling a little tight. "Oh, that's cool."

"Is it?" Brittany asks hesitantly. "I'm not, like, freaking you out or anything."

"Brittany," Santana admonishes, covering the blonde's hand with her own as they lay flat against the table, "Do I look freaked out?"

Brittany grins, looking down at their hands. "No. No, I guess you don't."

* * *

><p>"Does Starbucks typically stay open all night or…"<p>

Santana glances at the clock on the wall, watching it creep ever closer toward midnight. "No, not really. I just…it's New Year's Eve, you know?" Santana shrugs, looking away momentarily. "It wouldn't have been cool to just throw you out of here. Plus, it's not like I'm not enjoying the company."

Brittany smiles, kicking her feet out a little.

They're sitting on the counter together, watching the snow swirl around outside the window, and it's…comfortable if Santana had to describe it.

More comfortable than she'd like to admit actually.

"Why?" Santana asks, giving Brittany a mocking look. "You're not bored of me already, are you?"

"No way," Brittany laughs, leaning companionably into Santana's side. "I just don't want you getting into trouble because of me."

"Even if I _could_ get in trouble for this – which is not even possible because you are a paying customer – I'd still risk it for you, Britt," Santana says, her voice going soft at the end.

"That's sweet," Brittany tells her. "You're sweet."

Santana laughs, drumming her fingers against her lap shyly. "No one's ever called me sweet before."

Brittany shrugs, none too concerned. "Well, maybe no one's ever really seen you before."

* * *

><p>"Best Birthday present?"<p>

Brittany tilts her head up, thinking about it before her eyes brighten considerably and she faces Santana again, looking excited.

Santana feels herself getting excited too.

"My sixth one. My dad was away serving his second tour and we'd already assumed he was going to miss my birthday anyway, so Mom and me had just driven over to my grandparents for this small family party thing," Brittany explains.

"Well, we were about to cut the cake, which was and is _still _ my favorite part," Brittany continues, wiggling her eyebrows at Santana here. "And the doorbell sounds and, okay, so I kind of didn't get the stranger danger thing for a while so I ran straight away and opened the door before my mom or grandparents could stop me and there was my dad, holding about twenty balloons but they almost all flew away when I jumped into his arms."

"Aww," Santana gushes, totally envisioning a smaller version of the blonde woman flipping out like that, "That's so cute."

"Yeah," Brittany mumbles, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "So, um, worst first date ever?"

"Oh God," Santana groans. "I don't think there's enough time for this story."

"That bad?"

"Almost made an episode of COPS if you can believe that," Santana admits, pursing her lips.

"Yikes," Brittany laughs. "That sounds really awful."

"It was, but since I'm avoiding that question maybe I can tell you about my best first date ever?" Santana offers.

"Okay," Brittany agrees.

"Let me set the table. It was spring, it was raining, and his name was…wait for it…James DeFranco, but everyone called him Jimmy," she says. "And Jimmy was the absolute c-utest boy in our high school and everybody just assumed that as Captain of the football team he'd naturally want to hook up with the head cheerleader. It's like some unwritten high school rule or something."

"But he didn't?" Brittany asks, her interest palpable.

"No," Santana says, shaking her head. "Nope, Jimmy passed all that up to get up with this," she says, running her hands along her sides teasingly.

Brittany laughs. "So what'd he do?"

"Oh, he just…cooked me dinner, and get this Britt, he had his grandma help him prepare it. And it was gonna be this awesome outdoor picnic but right when he picked me up it started to rain so we ended up having it in his little brother's tree-house instead," Santana says, thinking back on it. "Anyway, after what really ended up being a pretty great home-cooked meal, he walked me home in the rain. We only had the one umbrella and he sacrificed his jacket to keep me completely dry and just in front of my house, right beside our crooked, run-down green tractor mailbox…he kissed me."

"That sounds really nice," Brittany says, sighing wistfully. "What ever happened to this Jimmy guy?"

"We were in high school. He finally hit puberty and turned like the rest of the assholes," she explains dryly, smirking to keep it light.

Santana swallows though when Brittany's smile falls, not going for the joke as she shrugs. "Well, it's his loss," she says quietly, nearly reverently.

Santana swallows again.

* * *

><p>"Almost midnight," Santana comments, glancing at the clock.<p>

After the quick sharing session, Santana decided she'd actually better get to the actual closing down of the shop, retiring to the kitchen to clean the canteens and blenders.

Honestly though, she'd basically retreated to the safety of the kitchen because she was starting to feel a little light-headed what with Brittany's lingering looks and quick, careful touches, and unassuming but equally as alluring words.

And it's probably all in her head because duh, Brittany just got dumped and – _and _– Santana's straight and Brittany knows this so like Santana's probably being overly paranoid and sensitive and stuff, right?

Right.

The problem is, she's starting to maybe, kind of hope that she's wrong.

Santana watches as Brittany's eyes find the clock as well, a small smile tugging at her lips as she does so. The rag in her hands feels cool and reeks of bleach as she wrings it nervously, trying to get out of her head.

"Time to start a brand new year," Brittany says, nodding.

She's sitting at a stool at the counter, the same counter Santana's standing behind. "Yeah," Santana nods, still wrestling with the rag. "A fresh start."

Brittany narrows her eyes at her, her gaze so intense that Santana feels like she's being scrutinized and devoured like a well-worn book but before she can comment on it, Brittany stands up, her confidently striding long legs bringing her to stand before Santana, the counter still between them, in mere seconds.

"Britt," she breathes, her chest rising and falling with her quickening inhalations, "Wha-"

Brittany kisses her, her right hand coming up to rest along the base of Santana's skull and her left hand smoothing carefully along the curve of her cheek.

Santana's hands fall and land against the counter with a dull _thunk_.

All too soon it's over, before Santana even really gets a chance to respond and Brittany's pulling away slowly, her thumb tracing along the contour of Santana's cheekbone.

Brittany smiles at her, not an ounce of nervousness displayed in her person. "Happy New Year, Santana."

Santana still shocked slightly, gulps audibly before responding. "Happy New Year."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Auld Lang Syne<strong>_

It's a rule in physics, no?

Anything that can go wrong, will.

At least, she thought she learned that junior year in high school.

Well, even if it's not a rule. It's certainly happening to her tonight.

* * *

><p>"<em>Oh, and can you pick up some more dip? Puck had an accident<em>."

Santana frowns, trying to draw the correlation as she tucks a package of disposable napkins under her arm.

"_Don't ask, Santana. Just do. Rachel wants this thing to go perfectly._"

It's New Year's Eve so of course just about everything is closed but being the good friend she is, she's stopping off at the only gas station in town still open to buy egregiously over-priced onion dip because her best pals' first holiday party together has to be perfect.

Yes, Quinn and Rachel finally dropped those duds and got with each other and while it was definitely time for them to get the party started, Santana isn't sure why they've suddenly decided to go all out and make this New Year's party all perfect and shit.

It's not like they have anybody to impress or anything.

But, anyway, that's neither here nor there because _here_ is trolling around a dingy BP and finding the smallest tub of dip imaginable while trying to ignore the lecherous eyes of the attendant.

She's hot and all but _damn_, dude.

She drops the items on the counter and rolls her eyes as the man keeps his eyes glued to her chest.

"Okay, Q, I've got the dip and the napkins. Now, before I leave this place, is there anything else you need?"

"_Nope. I think that's it. Oh, but can you get me – Beep!"_

"Shit," Santana hisses, groping for her phone and discovering – much like she'd suspected – her battery's dead.

"Oh well," she sighs, pocketing her phone again. "How much do I owe you?"

The guy grins, leaning on the counter with a heavy elbow and Santana does not have the time, nor is she in the mood for this.

She puts up her hand.

"Alright, look, guy. Whatever line you're trying to formulate with those two functioning brain cells of yours, keep it to yourself. I'm not interested. I don't go that way. And even if I did, you'd still have zero chance Mr. Unibrow. So if you'd please ring up my items so I can be on my merry way, I'd super appreciate it and I might even come back to this dump with a gift certificate to my brow-waxing lady as a token of my gratitude."

The transaction concludes without incident.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, Santana's out damn near fifteen bucks – this had better be some good ass dip – and waiting at a red light when it happens.<p>

There are basically only two cars on the road – hers and the one behind her – so like, there's no traffic.

Still, apparently she was going too slowly for the Speedy Gonzalez behind her because as soon as the light turns green and before she can accelerate the car rear-ends her…_hard_.

It takes all of two seconds for the shock to give way to the rage and Santana's out of her car in an instant.

"What the _hell_ is your problem?!" she yells, her body so heated that the biting cold does nothing as she flails about, walking to the back of her car.

Their bumpers are locked – hers and the other driver – but the other driver is making matters worse by reversing.

"No!" Santana yells, frantically waving her hands, but it's too late, the other driver wrenches her bumper clean off.

Santana stares, almost fuming as the other driver's door finally opens, and a woman clamors out, eyes wide and apologetic expression on her face.

Santana could care less.

"Hey, you!" she yells, marching toward her, "Do you know what 'no' means?!"

"Of course I do," the woman states, frowning in confusion at her.

"Well then why didn't you stop?" Santana asks, frantic.

She's still making crazy hand gestures but she just can't believe this is happening right now.

"Because 'stop' and 'no' don't mean the same thing," the woman answers as if _Santana _is the one with a comprehension problem.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Santana asks, her eyes narrowing. She now takes a moment to scrutinize the other woman, looking for any signs that might warn her to get in her car, lock the doors, and call the police, but the woman doesn't look crazy, just worried.

"No, and I'm really sorry I hit you it's just…my cat, he just texted me about breaking down and buying a pack of smokes and I'm really trying to get him to quit so it's kind of stressing me out," the woman explains, looking quite genuine and while Santana should be annoyed because this woman just admitted to her that the only reason she bumped her was because she was _texting _all she finds herself thinking is this woman's _cat _has a _cellphone _and can _text._

The fuck is _that _shit.

"Whatever," Santana murmurs, throwing her hands up and turning back to her car. "Call the cops. My phone's dead."

* * *

><p>So this is probably not the model way to start a new year but Santana's maybe a little glad because now she doesn't have to go to Quinn and Rachel's first New Year's party in which they're actually <em>together <em>together.

Don't get her wrong, she's happy for her friends and all but they tend to overdo it on the PDA.

Probably making up for lost time.

And, plus, skipping out on the evening also alleviates that dreaded scenario of having no one to kiss come midnight. Out of all of Rachel's invitees only two people are single and she's not kissing Jacob Ben Israel or Sugar Motta anytime soon.

Still, waiting around in her car for the police after a bizarre – though attractive, Santana has eyes after all – cat lady buttfucked her car isn't the ideal alternate scenario. She'd much rather be at home, tossing back a couple of shots, and huddled up underneath a million blankets as she waits for the ball to drop.

Santana sighs, turning toward her passenger seat and contemplating eating the damn dip because now she's freaking hungry on top of everything else but a quick rap against her driver's side window draws her attention back.

Cat lady's standing there, all bundled up in a beanie and scarf and saying something through the glass that Santana can't make out over the blasting car heater and the goddamn closed window.

Rolling her eyes, Santana lowers the window a crack. "What do you want?"

"Um," the lady starts, her teeth chattering a little, "Is it okay if I wait with you?"

Santana's eyes narrow. "In my car?"

"My heater's broken," the cat lady says in response, her eyes virtually pleading. "I've got hot cocoa and graham crackers," she adds as incentive, waving said items so that Santana can see them through the glass.

Santana's stomach growls loudly in response.

Damn it.

* * *

><p>"These are the best goddamn crackers ever," Santana says, her eyes closing in bliss. And they seriously are; they like melt in her mouth and don't taste anything like the sweetened cardboard she remembers being force-fed in kindergarten.<p>

Cat lady – whose actual name is Brittany but Santana is going to continue calling cat lady because it sounds funnier in her head – just chuckles, still waving her fingers over Santana's dashboard heaters. She has to still be really cold because she hasn't bothered taking off the hat or anything and she's still shivering slightly.

"That's probably because they're really fresh," Cat lady says, taking a swig of her cocoa. "I work at the factory."

"For reals?" Santana asks and Cat lady nods. "So, tell me something, are those elves like little assholes because I've always thought they were," she says, laughing when Cat lady just stares back at her confused. "That was a joke."

"Oh," Cat lady says, nodding with a small smile. "I didn't get it."

Santana sighs. "I figured," she mutters. "So, what were your plans for the evening before…all of this happened?" Santana asks, trying to kill some time.

"I was going to stay at work but Lord Tubbington's 911 text really threw me for a loop."

"The cat?" Santana questions.

"Yeah."

She shouldn't.

It's like poking a sleeping bear or a beehive.

She could just be invoking the crazy to come out full on and yet-

"Can your cat really text or are you just off your fucking medication?"

"Oh no," the lady says, "I'm serious. I rescued him from one of those weird city circuses and they'd trained him to do all these human things like text and clean, which is kind of awesome because like, I never have to worry about cobwebs or what's wrong with him when he drags his butt along the carpet but, then, they also taught him how to smoke so…" she trails off with a shrug.

"Wow," Santana says, shaking her head with a shocked laugh. "That's kinda messed up."

"I know," Cat lady says, nodding as well.

"And here I was thinking you were a legit crazy," Santana says, laughing.

"I'm not," Cat lady assures her, sipping more hot chocolate. "A little spacey from time to time," she admits with a shrug, slyly cutting her eyes over at Santana.

"I'll bet," Santana says, fighting off a grin.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe it's taking this long," Santana comments, sliding her seat back more so that she can stretch out.<p>

Brittany – okay, so she dropped the Cat Lady thing, sue her – has finally defrosted, shedding her hat and scarf and Santana's got to admit that the revelation of the straight up pretty underneath all the layers made her kind of breathless at first.

But she's not some virginal lezzie so she got over it pretty quickly.

Brittany hums in agreement. "There's probably a bunch of calls with it being New Year's Eve and everything."

"That's true," Santana nods, turning to look at Brittany's profile. "You know, I'm supposed to be at my friends' first New Year's party."

"I'm sorry," Brittany tells her, giving Santana a look full of remorse. "I'm such an idiot. I ruined your entire evening."

"Meh, it could have been worse," Santana dismisses with s shrug.

"Yeah?"

"Sure," Santana concedes. "In fact, you may have spared me the indecency of having to kiss Jacob Ben Israel."

Brittany laughs. "And kissing him is worse than being stranded in a car, in the cold, with a stranger?"

"Oh my God, you have no idea," Santana shudders at the thought. "And, I've kind of moved on from that whole kissing guys thing anyway," she says, not thinking too much about the over-share.

Brittany, though, doesn't seem to mind as she just shrugs. "I don't really have a preference," she admits, smiling when Santana looks at her questioningly. "Everyone's fair game."

"Yeah," Santana says, nodding. "I tried that too but I could get past the penises."

Brittany's laughter rings in her ears.

* * *

><p>"I love you, Jack."<p>

Santana looks at Brittany, grabbing her hand and holding it between her own. "Don't you do that, don't say your goodbyes. Not yet, do you understand me?"

Brittany coughs weakly, "I'm so cold."

Santana shakes the hand she's holding across the center console, imploring. "Listen, Rose. You're gonna get out of here, you're gonna go on and you're gonna make lots of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, space cadet (she ignores Brittany's eye roll) babies, and you're gonna watch them grow. You're gonna die old…an old lady warm in her bed with her cat. Not here, not this night. Not like this, do you understand me?"

"I can't feel my body," Brittany says, not breaking character.

Santana's lips twist but she manages to rein it in in order to deliver her next line. "Well, I can help you with that if you want," she says slyly, laughing when Brittany shoves her hands away.

"You're messing it up," Brittany playfully whines, though her smile wipes away any notion that she's actually displeased.

"Pfft," Santana says, throwing her hand. "That movie's so freaking messed up. That big ass piece of wood and they couldn't share it. Leo was a goddamn stick back then. Totally unbelievable."

"It was about the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. If they'd have both survived it wouldn't have been as good."

"Well, not for the morbid angst lovers but I would've liked it better if I didn't have to hide my swollen face as I was leaving the movie theatre."

Brittany smiles at her. "You cried?"

"No one needs to know that," Santana says quickly, pointing a threatening finger at Brittany.

"Aww, that's so cute," Brittany teases, snatching the finger and swinging it back and forth. "You do have a heart."

"Of course I do," Santana says, her voice turning earnest. "I just don't like getting it broken. By fictional movie characters or otherwise."

She avoids Brittany's eyes once she says it, instead turning her attention to the thick snow still falling outside. She feels Brittany shift a bit to face her, tugging Santana's hand into her lap and tracing circles onto the skin of her palm.

"Anyone do that recently?" Brittany asks, keeping her voice quiet.

Santana shrugs, running her tongue over her teeth, her eyes still trained elsewhere. "Not too recently."

"Recent enough," Brittany murmurs, sounding much too concerned for Santana's interest.

And she doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to be the one to make this night heavy and serious, she doesn't want to be the girl hung up over an ex that's so far gone it's laughable but reminiscing tends to happen on nights like these and she can't seem to stop herself.

"Yeah," she breathes, sighing deeply as a stupid tear makes a hasty escape. "Whatever."

"No, not whatever," Brittany says, tugging her closer. Santana's surprised she allows herself to just go with it, allows Brittany to tuck her into her side without much resistance, the blonde's left hand now wrapped around her shoulders while the right clutches onto the one she'd been playing with. "Come on," Brittany whispers against her ear, "You can't bring the new year in sad. It's bad luck."

"I'm sorry," Santana says, fighting back a sob.

"Don't be sorry. Just be happy," Brittany murmurs, her lips so close to the top of Santana's head that they brush against her brow-line. "Think about rainbows," Brittany says, now pressing a kiss to Santana's head, "Or puppies or…winning the lottery or, um…"

"Chocolate?" Santana tries, tilting her head up a little.

"Or chocolate," Brittany nods, encouraging her.

Santana tilts back further, until her eyes are trained on Brittany, who's looking down at her. "You kissed me."

"Mmhmm," Brittany says, hesitating a moment before doing it again, this time kissing Santana's nose.

Santana gulps when Brittany pulls back, the streetlight filtering in through the windshield illuminating her blue eyes perfectly so that they sparkle like melting ice cubes. "Do it again," Santana whispers, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.

There's a pause – just a flicker of hesitation on Brittany's part – but she eventually leans back in, inching closer and closer to Santana's face, aiming for her cheek and Santana watches her the entire way, closing her eyes just as Brittany's about to make contact.

Which is why she misses Brittany tilting her head at the last moment possible and instead kissing Santana's lips.


End file.
